


Between These Carven Walls

by Beleriandings



Series: Nargothrond and Beyond [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Celebrimbor feels deeply uncomfortable with this situation most of the time, Celebrimbor's daddy issues, Celebrimbor's everyone issues, Celebrimbor's massive unrequited thing for Finrod and all the consequences thereof, Eavesdropping, Gen, M/M, Nargothrond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-22 06:36:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3718783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The walls of Nargothrond echo with whispers and plots as the sons of Fëanor begin to gather power, but Celebrimbor soon begins to realise that his feelings for its king run deeper than he had thought possible. When the quest for the Silmaril and the Oath of Fëanor clash, tensions threaten to boil over into violence. Mistrusted by Orodreth and doubting his father and all that he has ever been taught to believe, Celebrimbor must make a choice that will change the course of his life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The feast had started some time ago, and Celebrimbor sat half forgotten beside Celegorm on the very edge of the dias, as the cheerful bustle and conversation clattered about them in Nargothrond’s great hall. The wine had been flowing freely for hours; Celegorm was talking to Curufin, and seemed slightly drunk.

Curufin, as far as Celebrimbor could see, was likely to be pretending to have drunk more than he had. Most people could not tell when he did this, but Celebrimbor liked to think was fairly good at it, by now.

At the place of honour at the high table sat Finrod,  _crowded by a little gaggle of lords and ladies all clamouring for his favour_ , thought Celebrimbor bitterly. The king threw back his head and laughed genially -  _always perfectly polite, generous and good-natured_  - as Celebrimbor watched.

He noticed he was pressing his fingernails into the soft flesh of his palms only when it began to hurt in earnest.

Suddenly, there was a lull in the conversation, or seemed to be, and Finrod’s head turned, as though his name had been called, to their end of the dias. Celebrimbor’s eyes widened, thinking Finrod was going to meet his eye, improbable though it seemed ( _and what beautiful eyes Finrod had_ , he found himself thinking,  _deep and full of joy and sorrow and knowledge, all intermingled_ ). Celebrimbor pushed back his hair from his face, smiling back until he felt Finrod’s gaze pass over him, with a sinking of his heart.

He turned to follow that gaze, and Celebrimbor, with a flickering in his heart, saw it light on his father. Curufin met Finrod’s eyes steadily, staring back across the dias to its centre, something in that look that Celebrimbor could not quite read.

Quite unexpectedly, something like disappointment, like  _jealousy_ , welled up within him from he knew not where.

After the feast, Celebrimbor could not help but notice, Curufin was nowhere to be found in the wing set aside for the Fëanorians for several hours, and it was not until late in the night that Celebrimbor heard the door closing, followed by Celegorm and Curufin speaking for a time in soft voices too low for him to make out the words.

Celebrimbor placed the cover back over his lampstone with a snap, plunging the room into darkness.

——

Finrod stood in a hexagonal, tiled chamber overlooked by galleries on all sides, looking down at his feet and pacing restlessly amongst the columns that held up the galleried walkways high above.

It was in one of these galleries that Celebrimbor stood.

He had not followed the king, he had merely come upon him there, in that otherwise deserted chamber. Originally he had meant to hastily turn away and leave Finrod to his thoughts. Something held him there though, a strange fascination rooting him to the spot as he watched Finrod’s pacing, trying to still even his breathing for fear that the king would hear him and think he was spying.

 _You are spying_ , said a small, malevolent voice inside his head.

“You are free to come down you know, Tyelperinquar” said Finrod, without stilling his steps, causing Celebrimbor to start like a frightened deer. Finrod looked up into the gallery then, his face magnanimous and kind as ever, golden as summer in the long lost, fading memories of vague happiness that were all Celebrimbor had left of his childhood in Aman.

Nodding furiously, Celebrimbor ran down the little spiral that led from the upper level to the lower, tripping a little on the last step in his haste and only just managing to right himself before he came face to face with Finrod. The king regarded him appraisingly, and Celebrimbor felt that touch of mind on mind once more, a gentle caress that put him a little more at ease, somehow.

Celebrimbor took in Finrod’s appearance. The king was dressed casually, in simple green tunic and breeches, hemmed with his customary gold, and his river of bright golden hair tugged back from his face in simple braids at his temples.

His gaze caught on Finrod’s hands; they were elegant and beautiful, golden-brown, and never seemed still, whether writing, ink-splattered, or gesturing in the air as Finrod talked, smoothing back a wisp of hair from his face or flickering across the harp strings, plucking sweet notes with seemingly no effort at all.

With some effort, Celebrimbor tore his gaze away from Finrod’s hands. “Do you…” he said, feeling the silence start to become uncomfortable. “Do you come here often?” Immediately he cursed himself.  _This is the royal wing of Nargothrond, set aside for the house of Finarfin and any of the family who come as guests. Of course he comes here often, you fool._

Finrod did not mock him though, his face entirely serious. “Often enough, these days” he said, a note of sadness entering his voice. He gestured up to the arched ceiling high overhead. “This chamber tends to be where I come when I feel melancholy. Or sometimes, simply to think.”

“And which is it today?”

Finrod laughed. “A little of both. Mostly the thinking, though.”

“What were you thinking of?” asked Celebrimbor, emboldened by Finrod’s familiar manner. The king of Nargothrond had a way of making one feel comfortable and at ease that he himself lacked entirely, Celebrimbor thought, and yet he could not even bring himself to envy Finrod.

“The future” said Finrod. “It has been much on my mind of late. There are visions, dreams, dark things that I do not understand…” he sighed. “When I was very young, Tyelpë, my father told me that I have the foresight. It is near as strong as his own; a remarkable talent, I was assured. All I had to do was learn to use it, learn to direct the visions and focus them, to not let them overtake my waking mind but bend them to my will.” He spread his hands before him, regretfully. “But such things take many, many years, much more time to master fully than the length of my life before I left Aman. My father and my grandmother were my greatest mentors in the art.”

“So you do not know what the visions mean?”

“Sometimes I do, sometimes I do not. And sometimes they intrude on my waking mind, particularly lately, I have found. And then there are the things my father always warned me about in those born with the gift too strong in their minds. The visions can come in fragments, and if I am not ready, steeled for them, they can cause me pain, even. Headaches, dissociation, distraction…” he tailed off. “Ah, but I should not burden you with my troubles. Your father seems to think they are more a blessing than a curse, for I do see many possible futures and have been known to make predictions which he finds… useful and practical.” Finrod gave a wry smile. “But that, of course, is just how Curvo is.”

“Visions of the future  _would_  be useful” said Celebrimbor slowly, thinking. “But if it causes you pain…”

“Only sometimes” said Finrod. “And I can master it, with effort. Besides, without my gifts I do not know who I would be. Certainly quite different from who I am now, anyway.”

“Could you teach me?” blurted out Celebrimbor, before he could stop himself.

Finrod smiled. “I daresay I could, at least a little. Many who have prophetic dreams are born with the talent, like my father and my sister and brothers and I, but others learn through hard practice and mental fortitude alone.”

“I would like to try, at least” said Celebrimbor uncertainly.  _The fate of the house of Fëanáro would be something worth knowing, something that would bring me my father’s favour._ Excitement sparked suddenly in his heart. “It would, as my father said, be rather useful to know something of the future.”  _And I could take some of the burden of prophecy off your shoulders, fair king_ _._

“The future is a strange beast” said Finrod, slowly. His eyes seemed to be boring into Celebrimbor, trying to pierce his heart, though Celebrimbor felt no touch of his mind as he had before. Celebrimbor saw many expressions flit across those beautiful green-gold eyes, but all the while something like sadness remained there, he thought. Then Finrod seemed to make up his mind. “Those who see, see possible futures, not one coherent vision of what will be. But perhaps I can teach you a little, if your mind is open to me.”

Celebrimbor’s eyes widened in sudden excitement. “It is!”

Finrod laughed quietly. “Well, you certainly have the enthusiasm. You will have to work extremely hard for your visions, particularly if you’ve never had one before.”

“I never have” admitted Celebrimbor quietly, his heart sinking.

“That does not mean that you never will” said Finrod firmly. “First though, I need to open your mind to the future. It’s just a little adjustment, and it will require the touch of ósanwe. I can do it here and now, if you like. Will you allow me…?” He held up his long, elegant forefingers to Celebrimbor’s temples, seeking permission, and Celebrimbor felt his heart accelerate.

“Yes, of course” said Celebrimbor, with a tiny rising spark of anticipation as Finrod approached him, his hands inches from Celebrimbor’s skin. Finrod was a little taller than him, his head inclined forward to look down at Celebrimbor, his lips slightly parted.

“Now, take a moment,” said Finrod, his mouth twitching into a hint of a smile, “to hide anything that you  _don’t_  want me to see.”

Celebrimbor tried to remain expressionless, as he pushed back the times, in the black of the night, when he had envisioned golden hair, pooling in waves in his hands, golden-brown arms in the light of a lamp, soft silk and velvet dropping away to reveal the taut well-made body beneath, dressed only in gold and jewels against skin… all this he thrust to the back of his mind, into the depths of the night of his  _fëa_ , with determination.

“Ready?” asked Finrod softly.

“I’m ready” said Celebrimbor, gritting his teeth.

Finrod touched his temples, and leaned forward just a little, his eyes fluttering closed as Celebrimbor watched. He wondered if he was supposed to close his eyes too, but he supposed it did not matter, and besides, he preferred to watch the faint flicker of Finrod’s eyes beneath his lids. Hastily he thrust this thought aside too as he felt the gentle probing of Finrod’s mind on his, a balmy warmth, questing through him, like fingers taking the utmost care while turning the delicate pages of a book.

The experience was strange, but not unpleasant, thought Celebrimbor. He was just beginning to grow used to it, when Finrod broke away, the contact suddenly snapping like thread.

Celebrimbor blinked, as Finrod opened his eyes.

“That’s it” said Finrod. “I have been into your mind and unlocked it, so that you may see the future in time, if you apply yourself.”

“That’s it?” repeated Celebrimbor, disbelievingly, for he had felt no change. “But it was so…”

“Quick?” asked Finrod. “Well, I do tend to know my ways around the minds of others.”

“I mean, I didn’t feel anything…” said Celebrimbor.

“I hope not!” said Finrod, with a warm smile. “If you had felt any pain or discomfort, I would never have forgiven myself, and I think, your father would never have forgiven me either.”

“Mmm” said Celebrimbor uncertainly. Then he brightened. “So… what must I do to see the future?”

“The simplest method” said Finrod, his voice taking on a slightly sonorous note, as though he were a teacher instructing a class, “is prophetic dreaming. Many such as yourself, who were born without significant gifts of foresight, have found they can master it with relative ease. You will need to practice every night, as you are falling asleep.”

Celebrimbor nodded, imagining himself in bed, half awake and half asleep, with Finrod’s words running through his head. “What must I do?”

“You must try to focus your dreams” said Finrod. “Start by making a habit of trying to remember them, to fix them in your mind when you wake up in the morning. Keep a diary, too.” He smiled, as though looking far back into the past. “That helps. When you’ve become good at remembering your dreams, try to teach yourself to guide their course of your own volition. Ask yourself often as you go about your day,  _is this real? Or am I dreaming?_  Then, when you are in a dream, you can recognise it and learn to make simple motions, choose your course, and to direct it, in time.”

“Like lucid dreaming” said Celebrimbor, nodding along, as he thought back to a treatise he had once read on the subject.

“Yes” said Finrod. “Have you practiced that technique before?”

“I’ve tried” admitted Celebrimbor. “I… I did not have much success.”

“Using ósanwe more often helps to keep you practiced” said Finrod. “Once you are able to dream lucidly, it will be easier. But if you want to see the future in any meaningful way, rather than just, say, snatches of that which may come to pass, or the lives of strangers far away, then you must focus on what you want to look at, while you are falling asleep. Imagine the immediate, or distant future, and in time, the dream will come to fill in the details, by the powers that the Quendi were given as part of our nature by the One, in the beginning of time.”

Something in Finrod’s voice when he spoke of the One and the beginning seemed to echo in Celebrimbor’s mind and heart. “I will try” he said, reverentially.

Finrod smiled. “Let me know how you get on.”

Celebrimbor nodded eagerly, something within him glowing warmly.

“Oh, and Tyelpë?” Finrod called after him, “if you see your father… tell him I would like to speak to him in my study at some point tonight, would you?”

“Of course.”

Later, Celebrimbor lay in bed in the dark, trying to think himself into a dream. But it kept turning into dark hair and gold, mingled together in the light of a lamp.

——

Days passed, then weeks, and Celebrimbor began to think of Nargothrond almost as a sort of home to him.

Almost.

He took a sip of his wine. His face felt warm in the firelit hall, and his head was just beginning to swim. He sat on the far side of the table, beside Edrahil, who had turned away from him and was deep in conversation with Finduilas.

But Celebrimbor was not looking at them.

Instead he found his eyes fixed on Finrod down the length of the table, who was speaking to Curufin, now seated with Celegorm beside the king. Curufin’s face was still as he spoke, and at something he said Celegorm beside him smirked, and Finrod smiled indulgently.

Finrod’s hair was braided and fell down in his back in elaborate golden ropes, Celebrimbor noticed as he struggled to hear the words of their conversation. At his throat glinted the Nauglamír, as ever, his collar wide and open in the warm room to show the carcanet to best effect against the king’s collarbones.

Finrod leaned back in his chair, his mouth twisting derisively in response to something Curufin had said. As he did so the muscles and tendons in his neck shifted, flickering in the light of the candles and the fire, and the lampstones in their delicate, hanging lanterns.

Suddenly his gaze snapped to Celebrimbor, their eyes meeting before Celebrimbor could turn his face away. He felt his cheeks flushing with the shame of having been discovered staring, and yet there was no indictment, no mocking in Finrod’s eyes in the brief moment they held his gaze. Then there came again that brief brush of ósanwe, that little reassuring nudge meant only for him. Celebrimbor felt himself flushing even darker, though he himself did not fully know why, as Finrod turned back and resumed his conversation with Curufin, as though nothing had happened.

The feast ended, and Celebrimbor stood up and excused himself, his head spinning a little from the wine. He was still watching Finrod as he went to the door.

On the way out, his father caught his eye, holding his gaze for a moment with an unreadable expression, and then looked away.

———

Often enough, Celebrimbor wondered what he was doing here.

They were lucky to be alive; this he knew. They had fled the burning in Himlad and had nowhere else to go.

Nevertheless, their stay in Nargothrond was proving oddly permanent for a people merely seeking refuge, he thought sometimes, when he considered the future.

Curufin and Celegorm were gaining influence and followers, both in the court and amongst the people of Nargothrond. This much had been clear from the talk of the smiths and the artisans that Celebrimbor saw most often. He was able to tell when their conversations were about him, as they broke off hastily when he appeared, but sometimes they were not quite hasty enough.

Despite this, Celebrimbor loved the smithies of Nargothrond; whole levels where metal was poured, beaten, shaped, turning out beautiful things in profusion. Down here in the carven caves in the depths of the earth, it seemed _right_ , somehow, the ring of hammers and the red glow of the forge, as though Aulë’s halls had been recreated across the sea, though they were beholden to no Vala here.

He even thought sometimes that he could be happy here.

Then he would see the way his father acted around Finrod.

There was no single sign, Celebrimbor thought sometimes. Curufin was very careful, meticulously, fastidiously careful in this as he was in all things. And yet sometimes, when one watched for a long time – and Celebrimbor _did_ watch, for a _very_ long time – one noticed things. Celebrimbor, certainly, noticed the burning gaze of his father’s silver eyes; when Curufin turned it on his son, it seemed to go through Celebrimbor like a blade. But no, he thought. It was subtly different now, when it fell on Finrod. Defiant and fascinated and derisive, and something else that Celebrimbor could not quite identify, or perhaps did not want to. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I have assumed, as usual, the version of the legendarium where Gil-galad is the son of Orodreth.

It happened quite unexpectedly, although, Celebrimbor thought later, he certainly _should_ have been expecting it. 

It was late; he was returning from the great library to his rooms when he heard voices in the courtyard below. It hadn’t taken him long to realise that Nargothrond was a warren of passages and turns, of spiral staircases and galleries and delicate highwalks that could confound the idle visitor, or, equally, could allow those who knew the layout to hide and eavesdrop very effectively. Nor had it taken him long to gain a working knowledge of it himself. But this time, he did not even need to hide.

A sound from below made him stop, his eyes following it, involuntarily. For a while he just stood there in perfect stillness, his mind reeling at the sight before him. He stood on a discrete balcony, stony faced as he stared down at the two people pressed against the wall of the corridor below. 

One was his own father, eyes squeezed closed and his tongue clamped at one corner between his teeth, almost in the same way he did when he was concentrating hard. His skilful fingers were knotted through the other's profusion of golden hair, now twining it almost gently, reverently about them, now seizing a handful and tugging hard, drawing a gasp. 

He could not see the other's face, but he had no doubt as to who that tall, golden figure was.

Celebrimbor felt as though he had swallowed a stone as he watched Finrod savagely kiss along Curufin's jawline, working his way down his throat with a rough urgency rarely seen in one usually so serene and golden-calm. Finrod's fair hands were bunched in the front of Curufin's soot and sweat stained forge tunic, drawing him closer with none of his usual gentle grace. Then he began to drop his hands lower, slipping between their bodies so that Celebrimbor could no longer see them. Yet still his eyes widened, his body reacting to the sight, to his horror. 

Curufin was pressed so close between the wall and Finrod now that Celebrimbor could not see his face, hidden as it was behind the fall of Finrod's hair, but Celebrimbor's mind supplied a face, _his own face, so similar_ … the very thought sent a tortured stab of mingled pain and lust through him.

Celebrimbor, barely able to breathe, wrenched himself away then, turning his back to the scene and closing his eyes, trying to inhale and exhale deeply and evenly; he could feel his face heating up, burning. He turned and fled down the corridor, trying to ignore it, to forget what he had seen and yet, in some small, rebellious corner of his mind that he usually denied the existence of, not quite wanting to.

The worst thing, he would think later, when the blackness closed over him and anger and shame rose before his eyes like smoke, was just how little it surprised him.

The next morning he awoke, scrubbing at eyes that still prickled with sleep after a night of turning and fitful sleep full of twining wisps of anger and foreboding. He did not remember what he had dreamed. But he knew that what he had seen the previous day had been all too real. 

\-------

If Celebrimbor had known that he would find Finduilas crying in the alcove off this particular little-used, winding passageway, then perhaps he would have taken a different one. But he had not known, and by the time he saw her she was standing up to meet him, palming tears from her eyes angrily and smoothing her skirts, a fierce blush rising to her cheeks even as she tilted her jaw to meet his gaze defiantly.

"I… my Lady," he stammered, "forgive me, please, I did not mean to… did I intrude…?”

She shrugged, biting her lip. “It’s everybody’s corridor.” Then she seemed to remember herself, and stared up at him with curiosity on her face. “You’re that smith, aren’t you? One of the princes of Himlad. People say you’re dreadfully clever. And that you look a lot like your father.” Then she suddenly stopped speaking again, as if her courage had left her.   
Celebrimbor frowned. “No, I could not claim that honour. I am not a prince, not anymore really, and it is my own father who is the clever smith who looks like _his_ father… although I suppose if you mistook me for him…” he felt a blush rising to his own face now. A silence stretched between them, as he tried to make up his mind whether to look at Finduilas or to avoid her eye. 

"The description could fit both of you then" she said, smiling, although she looked a little wary.  _Perhaps she has been told about Alqualondë_ , he thought uncomfortably,  _and if she mistook me for my father_ … he was about to try to tell her that he had taken no part, that he had only been a child at the time, but even as he was trying to put the words into order she spoke again. 

"As it happens, I _did_ mean you" she said. "But what must you think of me, weeping in the corridor like a little child?"

He gave her an encouraging smile. "I daresay we have all felt like doing so at certain points in our lives."

She gave a quiet watery laugh and a grudging smile, and the silence stretched out between them once more, each unsure of what to say next.

"Who is it that you miss…?" Celebrimbor asked at last, softly. He knew, by now, how to tell. 

"My little brother" she replied. "Ereinion. And my mother… my father sent them away." 

Celebrimbor frowned. "Why would he do that?"

"The reason they're putting about to the people is that Ereinion is to be fostered at Barad Eithel, and to serve the king as a page, or something like that. But I know that my father fears for us all, that he thinks Barad Eithel is safer than Nargothrond these days, though our own king Felagund disagrees with him. I heard them arguing about it again two days ago, not that it ever gets them anywhere." She sighed. "Of course, king Fingon said in his letter that Ereinion and mother will be kept within the royal household and will be treated with all the honour befitting those of his own blood. Still, I miss them both." She looked at the floor, her hands twisting unconsciously in front of her. 

 _And what of you_ , he wanted to ask. _Will you be safe here?_ He knew little of Orodreth and what he may fear, but Celebrimbor felt a stab of pity for Finduilas then, for he knew she too had come here from the ruins of her former home upon Tol Sirion, not long before he himself had arrived in Nargothrond. 

"King Fingon is very kind" he said, trying to find something that would cheer her. "And good to children. I'm sure he will be as a second father to Ereinion."

"Did you know him well then?"

"Not well, but a little." In truth, kindness was almost the only thing he could remember about Fingon, so long had it been since he had last seen him, at Lake Mithrim when Celebrimbor had been but a child himself. Fingon, in his mind, was a vague figure that smiled warmly at Celebrimbor, that ruffled his hair and slipped him a sweet apple cake with a wink and a grin. Fingon had been there and whispered that there was no need to fear when Curufin had brought Celebrimbor to visit his uncle Maedhros - whom he had barely recognised, such were his injuries - on the other side of the lake. By the time Celebrimbor was old enough to have clear memories, Fingon had only been a figure standing steadfastly at the side of Fingolfin ( _the high king who never should have been,_ as Curufin had always said) and thus someone to be wary of. Celebrimbor could barely imagine Fingon as a king himself. But that was all he had to reassure her. "They will be treated well" he settled for, at last.

"I'm sure they will" said Finduilas, worry twisting in her voice. "It's not their treatment at court that I fear, but the journey. It's not safe out there."

For this Celebrimbor had no words to sooth her fear. He sighed. “If you ever want to talk about it, or anything else…” he began, tailing off.  
She looked up at him, her eyes shy and her face still reddened and tear-streaked, but he could see the beginnings of a tentative smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Thank you. I will.”

He was just about to reply when there came a sharp voice from around the corner of the corridor. “Curufinwion! What are you doing here?”  
Celebrimbor started, turning to see Orodreth approaching them, suspicion on his face.

“Ada, he was just introducing himself” said Finduilas.

“You’re lost, Curufinwion” said Orodreth, stiffly. “These are the family’s rooms on this corridor. Only myself and my daughter and, around the corner, our king, abide in this wing.”  
Celebrimbor fought back the impulse to say something cutting in response and merely dipped his head politely. He looked back up, catching Orodreth’s eye. “I was looking for my father” he said. “I have… reason to believe he may be with the king.”

Orodreth’s face twitched fractionally at that, his body tensing. _Ah, so he does know_ , thought Celebrimbor. _Or he suspects. Either way, it does not please him._  
“Well, you were misinformed” said Orodreth, and the silence spread out between them, thick and cloying.

It was Finduilas that broke it, shuffling her feet in obvious discomfort as Celebrimbor and Orodreth stared each other in the eye. She took her father’s arm, and smiled at him, and then at Celebrimbor. “I suppose you had better be going, Curufinwion” she said breezily to Celebrimbor. “If I may indeed call you that? We seem to have missed the introductions entirely, somewhere along the way!” she laughed. “But I am Finduilas, anyway. Though we have already met.”

He bowed courteously. “Charmed, my lady.” He smiled. “But I prefer to use the name _Celebrimbor_.”

He could feel Orodreth’s eyes on his back as he swept from the corridor.  
\-------

“Have you made any progress on your dreaming?” asked Finrod. “Have you seen anything that you think may be part of the future?”

Celebrimbor’s heart sank, as he thought of his dreams, the ones of nameless fear, a great yawning darkness, and the ones that came in vivid snatches that he could not remember in the morning, slipping away like sand through his clenched fist. “Not exactly” he said, unwillingly. “Nothing… clear.”

“It takes time” said Finrod, and he was so sympathetic in his tone, his fair face smiling softly, that Celebrimbor’s heart ached just to look at him. “If you want to learn, you must persist. Now, shall I go through again what you must do?”

Celebrimbor thought it would make little difference, but he would enjoy the chance to stay near Finrod for a little longer. “Please do” he said.  
\-------

Celebrimbor tossed in his sleep. He seemed to be lying in the bottom of a deep, dark hole, which appeared to be open to the sky far, far above. _Or perhaps that was a lamp?_ There were wolves all around him, he noticed, their pale yellow eyes appearing out of the gloom, not moving as yet.

 _What are they waiting for?_ he wondered, and then, _is this real? Or is this a dream?_

 _Of course it’s real_ , came the answer. _Silly of you really, Curufinwion, thinking that you're dreaming. Quite careless._

_He would be disappointed in you_ _._

A wolf lunged out of the blackness, jaws tearing at his throat, and Celebrimbor screamed and woke up with a sickening jolt.

He lay there, frozen upon the bed with the sheets tangled around his legs, for a long while, before taking the cover off his lampstone with a sigh, and going to write the dream in his notebook.

\-------  
Celebrimbor had gone to the gallery over the falls half expecting it to be empty this early in the morning, and half hoping it would not be.  
It was not empty.

“Ah, Tyelpë” said Finrod gently, turning towards Celebrimbor before he could draw away. “Up early?”

“I was just…” he could feel himself turning red already. “I wanted to see the sunrise over the Narog” he said. “The dawn light on the falls is beautiful. I am sorry, I did not realise you would be here. I’ll leave you be.”

“No” said Finrod, patting the stone rail of the balcony beside him. “Join me. The river is indeed beautiful, you are right.”

“A good decision to keep it unbridged” said Celebrimbor, looking out over the water to avoid looking at Finrod. _His golden hair was tousled, as though from sleep, and he wore a long, loose robe of golden and white silk, slipping elegantly off one shoulder…_ Celebrimbor shook his head. “Um. From both a defensive and an… aesthetic point of view, I mean.”

“I am glad you are with me on that” said Finrod, chuckling and tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. “There are some who oppose isolation though.”

“Perhaps” said Celebrimbor, inclining his head. “But I for one I am glad of it. Nargothrond saved me, as much as it did my father and uncle, and it would not be the safe haven it was if free traffic in and out was allowed to anyone and everyone.”

Finrod frowned. “You were wounded in the flight from Himlad, were you not?”

Celebrimbor supposed his father had told Finrod this, and the thought of the two of them talking about him together made his stomach leap. “Not seriously wounded” he said. “Minor burns, a shallow cut from an orc’s scimitar in a skirmish at the edge of the river. I was stupid, really, I slipped in the mud and let them surround me, but luckily my father was there to come to my rescue…”

“No, Tyelpë, you're not stupid" said Finrod quietly. "There's no shame in that, it can happen to the best of us. I myself had a somewhat close call, not so long ago, and was saved only by very good fortune and the kindness of someone who became a dear friend to me." Finrod gazed out over the water thoughtfully for a moment, with a sigh. He shook his head a little, and smiled at Celebrimbor once more. “Anyway, your father, I think, was extremely relieved to see that you were not more seriously injured.”

Celebrimbor’s hesitation was almost imperceptible, but he thought Finrod may have picked up on it. “Of course.”

They were silent for a moment longer, each lost in their own thoughts as the sun rose over the water, lighting the spray off the river in rainbows. Celebrimbor found himself acutely aware of the slight brush of his bare elbow against the silk of Finrod’s sleeve, feeling the gentle warmth of the king’s skin beneath like a searing hot iron in the forge.

\-------

Though Curufin and Celegorm – and by extension Celebrimbor – had been found rooms near to those of the royal family, as befit the cousins of the king, his days were spent mostly on the lower levels, where the forges and the workshops were. Celebrimbor found he liked it there more and more each day, where the familiar sound of hammers rang often in the air, and the walls were a little rougher, the decoration more functional than ornamental.

He was hunting through dusty drawers in a little-frequented materials storage room, a lampstone in his hand to light the dimness, when he heard the door open behind him. 

"Curvo, what on Arda are you doing in here when you said you - oh, forgive me, Tyelpë, it's you!"

He turned hastily, scrabbling for his explanation of why he was here although he had done nothing wrong, to see that it was Finrod. For a moment he was distracted, unable to remember what he had been planning to say.

Finrod laughed, indulgently. “No need to look so frightened! I am truly sorry if I startled you.”

“You didn’t” said Celebrimbor. 

Finrod did not reply, but merely watched him intently, his head tilted to one side in contemplation. Just as the silence began to grow uncomfortable Finrod spoke again. “These old rooms” he said, shaking his head a little and looking around the dusty storeroom. “I should really have had them lit long ago. They really are more caves than anything else.”

“I was told that there were some old samples of enamel pigments here that I would be interested to look at” said Celebrimbor, raising his lampstone higher. The silver-blue glow played over Finrod’s golden hair, turning it to spun Treelight, almost. “I didn’t find them though. I suspect the location had been written down wrongly, or the things stored in this room were moved at some point. I was just about to leave, actually.”

Finrod laughed quietly, but not unkindly. “Do not worry Tyelpë, I am not here to reprimand you.”

“Were you looking for my father?” blurted out Celebrimbor, before he could stop himself. "Did he say he'd meet you, and then not come?"

Finrod frowned just a little at that, the tiny crease between his eyebrows a ridge of dark shadow in the bright light of the lampstone. “Now why would you ask that?”

“I was just… forgive me, I shouldn’t have.” Celebrimbor did not press the point, although he could not help but notice that Finrod had not actually answered his question.

Finrod sighed, going to stand behind Celebrimbor, holding out his hand for the lampstone. Celebrimbor handed it to him, and he turned it over in his graceful, long-fingered hands, an odd expression on his face. Shadows played across his features as he looked into the light. 

 _What do you see? What words does the light whisper to you? What will the future hold?_ There were many questions Celebrimbor could have asked, but he was content to merely watch Finrod.

Finally Finrod looked back up at him. “Tyelpë, do you know the story of the cave?”

Celebrimbor looked about him doubtfully, at the rough-hewn walls of the storeroom, the texture stark in the lampstone light. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Finrod smiled slightly, and gently took Celebrimbor by the shoulders, guiding him to stand in the middle of the room, placing himself behind Celebrimbor. “No, stay there” he said, when Celebrimbor made to turn and look at him. “Look forward, at the wall, not at me.”

Celebrimbor obeyed, puzzled. As he watched, Finrod raised the lampstone behind Celebrimbor, high above his head. Then Finrod placed his hand in front of it, so that its shadow loomed large on the far wall’s hewn stone.

“What” asked Finrod “does that look like to you, Tyelpë?”

“A hand” said Celebrimbor, hesitantly, watching the shadow of Finrod’s hand moving backwards and forwards. “It’s your hand.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” The distorted shadows of Finrod’s fingers moved languidly back and forth upon the stone, as Celebrimbor watched, transfixed. He paused, thinking for a moment. “No. Well. It’s the _shadow_ of your hand.” 

“It is” said Finrod, and Celebrimbor could hear the smile in his voice. “But answer me this, Tyelperinquar. If you _never_ turned around and saw me, if you'd never seen what a hand truly looks like, would you answer the same? If you had lived your whole life in this darkened room, what would you say then?”

“Are we assuming I have a word for the concept of a hand?”

“Assume that you coin one, in proper Noldorin fashion” said Finrod. “But what would you apply it to?”

“The shadow” said Celebrimbor slowly. “The shadow would, in my mind, be entirely equivalent to a hand, because I would have known nothing else.”

“And furthermore?”

“Furthermore…” he thought for a moment. “Furthermore, I would not necessarily be able to understand what people who knew what was really going on meant when they said ‘hand’, because the actual object would not be something within my experience.”

“Possibly” said Finrod. 

“Possibly? I should think _probably_.”

“Hmm. What about if you turned around, or broke out of your dark little world altogether?”

Celebrimbor turned to face Finrod, the light of the lampstone leaving him momentarily dazzled, blinking quickly as bright spots danced in his eyes. “Then I would see the light, and the hands, and everything else in this world that I had no names for and no concept of. And I would see that my world had been built on faulty assumptions and a very narrow point of view.”

“And how would that make you feel?”

Finrod’s lips were slightly parted, and Celebrimbor was suddenly aware of how close together they were standing - though they were not touching - and of the space between their bodies. “I think…” he said. “I think I would feel confused. Lost. Hurt. For some time, at least.”

“I think anyone would” said Finrod. “But then - ”

The rest of his words were lost, though, as the door opened, and a clipped, impatient voice filtered through. “Ah, cousin, I was beginning to wonder whether I had misjudged your tendency to – wait… _Tyelpë_?”

Celebrimbor tore his gaze away from Finrod, irrationally apprehensive, to see his father standing in the doorway, framed by the brighter light of the lampstones that lined the corridor outside. He blinked as Curufin came into the storeroom.

“Forgive me, cousin” said Finrod silkily. “Your son and I were just having a most enlightening discussion.”

Curufin frowned, looking questioningly at Celebrimbor, then around the small room, then back at Finrod. “I am sure. Is that, perhaps, why you could not keep your... appointment?”

“I was not aware that any formal appointment had been made.”

Curufin smiled, almost knowingly, Celebrimbor thought. “Did I say that one had been?”

For a moment Celebrimbor watched the two of them stare at each other, a current of something running between them. He felt a sudden surge of anger, boiling up within him from he knew not where. He struggled to keep his face blank and still. 

“Excuse me” he said to them. He inclined his head to Finrod. “I have kept you for too long, I see now.”

He knew that he would have to bear his father’s gaze later, the slight tightening of his mouth and the twitch of an eyebrow showing his disapproval clearly, but at this particular moment Celebrimbor did not care. Tearing his eyes away from the two of them, he turned to the bright outline of the door and left them there in the darkened room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt as though if anyone would like Plato's Allegory of the Cave, Finrod would.
> 
> Also, bits and pieces of this are adapted form my past drabbles so if it seems a little familiar in places that is probably why.


	3. Chapter 3

Celegorm was coming out of the anteroom that led onto Curufin’s chambers as Celebrimbor made his way there, and immediately Celebrimbor could tell that something was wrong.

“What is it?” Celebrimbor asked his uncle, drawing up in front of Celegorm and taking in his hunched shoulders, his hands balled into fists, the thunderous scowl on his face. Celebrimbor looked at the door, doubtfully, wondering if the brothers had been arguing. “Is my father in - ”

“Oh yes” said Celegorm, interrupting him. His voice was a little too loud in the stillness. “Yes, he's there. Most certainly.” He looked back over his shoulder at the closed door. His lips were twisted into a bitter smile, almost a wolf’s snarl, and Celebrimbor had to make an effort not to draw back. He knew this look on his uncle; he had seen it before, though he never quite grew used to it. Celegorm’s muscles were tense, and he looked from the door to Celebrimbor, and back again, several times. Then Celegorm gave a huffing sigh, his shoulders seeming to droop a little. 

“But I would not go to him now” he said, and his voice had lost its tightness and become rougher. “Trust me, boy. He will… not want to be disturbed.”

Celebrimbor frowned. “Of course” he said. “It's not an urgent matter, anyway.”

“Good.” Celegorm hesitated, and for a moment he looked as though he might say more, but instead he simply ruffled Celebrimbor’s hair and carried on down the passageway, turning his face quickly away so that Celebrimbor could not see his expression. 

Left alone, Celebrimbor wavered, filled with suspicion. Quietly, almost against his will, he stepped through into the antechamber. There was no one there, and the inner door that led to Curufin's rooms proper was closed. He looked back out of the door into the hallway, and then back at the inner door. Then he looked back out, making sure that Celegorm was truly gone.   
What could have made his uncle behave like that?

Celebrimbor though he knew, the knowledge like a sour burning in his stomach. 

He paused, frowning, his hands unconsciously making fists at his sides as his mind worked.

He made his choice.

A dark, reckless sort of curiosity had overcome him. Quietly, cautiously, he tiptoed towards the door and laid his ear against it. He could hear muffled voices, of his father and of Finrod, he was fairly certain, though he could not make out what they were saying. 

Pushing down his guilt with relative ease, he looked around the small room, catching sight of a narrow side table, on which was laid a decanter of pale amber-coloured wine and one of dark, deep red, for when guests were admitted. (He had even met a few of them, these allies picked by Curufin himself with precise care disguised as chance friendship, easy camaraderie perfectly engineered not to appear meticulous and targeted. The ones that Curufin chose, Celebrimbor knew, were the craftsmen and women, the linguists and scholars of Nargothrond who flocked eagerly to meet and hold discourse with the somewhat infamous Curufin son of Fëanor while he was amongst them, unable to reign in their slightly morbid curiosity. He knew the type well by now, they all did. All fell for the charismatic sons of Fëanor like fish on a hook, still blind to the fact that the prize of their loyalty had yet to be reeled in.) 

Beside the decanters, Celebrimbor’s eyes lit on a stack of finely cut crystal glasses. Picking one up, he set its rim against the smooth wood paneling of the door, and, hardly daring to breathe, he pressed his ear against its base, painfully aware of the very pounding of his heart in his chest.

Immediately, the voices sprang into his hearing, sharper now. 

“You are wrong in that, though I no more expect you to understand why than I do for you to regard it as a flaw in your plan” Curufin was saying. “But truly, I do believe you’re trying to distract me with this talk, cousin…” there was a short pause, before Curufin began again, his voice abrupt and cutting now. “I’ll ask you only once more. What do you mean by the way you have been speaking to my son?”

Celebrimbor stiffened at this, trying to quiet even his breathing, which, he thought, must surely be far too loud. They were talking about him.

“Absolutely nothing” said Finrod, nonchalantly. “Or at least, nothing quite as… _reprehensible_ as you seem to suspect, cousin.” He laughed. “Or do you expect me to corrupt his innocence by my mere presence? Or is it my philosophical stance that bothers you?”

“Don’t be a fool” snapped Curufin. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. Those times you have been discussing with him, all alone in the six-star vault, or locked into small, dark rooms in which there is barely space to - ”

“I ask again” said Finrod, more sharply now. “Of what are you accusing me? Do you think I have been trying to _seduce_ your son?” Finrod’s laugh rang out, incredulous, as Celebrimbor’s heart accelerated, despite himself, at the image of Finrod trying to seduce him, his cheeks growing uncomfortable warm as pictures of what might follow sprung into his mind unbidden.

“Not seduce him” said Curufin, impatiently. “We both know I did not mean that. You try to _charm_ him, yes, and then you _leave_ him, his young head dizzy with you and your fair golden words and the thought of your hands on his body. Always wanting more, that you will never give him… Tyelpë idolises you, more every day. You are _cruel_ , Ingoldo.”

"Cruel? Me? Never." Celebrimbor could almost imagine Finrod’s indulgent smile. “But I must say, I'm surprised by this sudden outpouring of fatherly concern, Curvo. Can that possibly be all there is to it? No, I think this is about something else. Are you worried I will turn him against you? Use him as a spy to listen into you and your brother’s private conversations?” There was a pause, and Celebrimbor heard a rustle of fabric, and a muffled, breathy sound. “You know I’ve only been discussing some of the pertinent questions that have been going through my mind of late, or teaching him. It's always rewarding to have a pupil who wants to learn so much. He wanted to learn something of prophetic dreaming too, did you know? It's all very academic and above-board, I assure you. Nothing particularly…” another pause, and Celebrimbor thought he heard heavy breathing, though he was not sure who had made the sound “…subversive.”

“An affair of the mind can be just as _subversive_ , as you put it, as an affair of the body, and we both know it” muttered Curufin darkly. 

“Oh, don’t we” said Finrod, and there was a quiet thud, as though someone had walked into a piece of furniture, Celebrimbor thought. 

Curufin made a sound as though he was about to say something else, but instead he let out a low growl in his throat, after a moment. “Just tread carefully around my son, cousin.”

“Always” said Finrod, his voice somewhat muffled. “Why, Curvo, if I didn't know better…" there was a short pause "…if I didn't know better, I'd say you were feeling rather _jealous_." Finrod sounded amused. 

Curufin scoffed. "Of Tyelpë? You know, you're welcome to him, if he is willing. And I think he would be. We both know he's been gagging for you since we came here, and thinks himself half in love with you, the poor foolish boy." Celebrimbor almost lost his courage and fled then, his face heating up, but curiosity rooted him to the spot against his better judgement. "Why, sometimes, I wish that you would simply let him suck your cock like he wants to, Ingo, and put him out of his misery, so we can all have some peace and everything can return to normal."

Celebrimbor had to choke back an inarticulate sound, keeping it from slipping from him at the very last moment.

"You say that… but you would sing a different tune, I think, cousin, if it was Tyelpë's bed I came to of a night instead of yours." Finrod's voice was low, half purring, half mocking.

"You would come back eventually." Curufin sounded confident, a sneer in his voice. "I can see it in you, in the way your… ah…" his last words were was lost in a quiet moan, before the sarcastic bite returned to his voice, cold and hard. "But yes, if you and he are both willing, I give you permission to fuck my son." His tone turned a little softer for a moment, sounding slightly regretful. "Poor boy, he hasn't had much that he _truly_ wanted for a long time." His voice snapped back to steel. "Is that what you want to hear from me, dearest cousin?"

"Curvo, Curvo, the assumptions you make" Finrod said silkily, clearly feigning innocence, "what if it was _him_ fucking _me,_ hmm?"

"I hardly think - "

"No, you don't, do you? You don't see your son as anything other than a wide-eyed young boy in my thrall. But Tyelpë is so much more than that, Curvo, and you will learn that to your cost, one day, I think."

Curufin sounded angry now. "Oh stop making things up and acting as though you've foreseen them. I know how to tell the difference by now, you know."

"Do you?"

"Yes. And cousin…" Curufin's voice dropped low with fury, and Celebrimbor had to strain to hear, catching too a strangled gasp from Finrod. "Don't you _dare_ take him from me. You can have his body, if that is truly his wish, but you will never…" he growled, and Celebrimbor flinched involuntarily, "…you will _never_ have his mind. That will always be _mine_."

Celebrimbor imagined Finrod shrugging in that graceful, fluid way he had. "Naïvely, I would have said his mind was his own, cousin." 

"You know what I mean."

The was a pause. "Yes" said Finrod with a sigh. "Yes, I think you've made it clear enough." There was an amused chuckle in his voice. "I'm still going with the working theory that you are at least _slightly_ jealous, Curvo. But come, we both know that this is all idle speculation; we both know it's not your son I want, truly…" - Celebrimbor's heart contracted painfully at this - "but I am surprised by your… ah… determination to speak of your son in such situations as this…” there was another thud, the quiet squeak of bedsprings. “Unless, of course, that’s what gets you - ” Finrod let out a muffled sound as though of pain. “Alright! Alright, I did not mean to provoke you.” He laughed. “Fine, I admit, perhaps I did a little. But you are so _intriguing_ when provoked…”

_I'm nothing but a toy to them_ , thought Celebrimbor desolately, anger rising poisonously within them. _Only a pawn caught between them, as they ensnare each other in their webs. I was a fool, in truth, if I thought either father or Findaráto would ever truly care._

And then, _do I really believe that?_

"Quiet now" Curufin was snarling at Finrod, beyond the door. "You've talked enough. I'm sick and tired of listening to you now."

"Thank you, cousin, from the bottom of my heart, for your - _mmph!_ "

Finrod's voice was muffled, as though something had been pressed over his mouth.

The sound of bedsprings again, and more fabric rustling, and then a muffled moan that sounded as though it had come from Finrod, and then another, louder, his voice freed again; whatever covered his mouth must have been removed. 

Curufin, for his part, was completely silent, which, Celebrimbor thought, was at least a small mercy. He listened a little while longer, the sounds that Finrod was making growing louder, more insistent with lust and pleasure, and - perhaps - a hint of pain. Celebrimbor wanted to tear himself away, to run from this room, but he found himself transfixed, rooted to the spot with face and body burning and a painful hardness in his groin. 

He gritted his teeth, listening and forcing himself to resist the temptation to slip his hand down the front of his own breeches, right here in the antechamber, as his mind filled in what he could not see. He imagined Finrod spreadeagled upon the bed, _his hair and clothes dishevelled, his eyes bright and his face flushed and slicked with sweat, utterly undone…_  

At last Finrod let out a long, ragged, drawn out cry that almost tore Celebrimbor’s heart in two as well as making him have to hastily dig his nails into his palms so as not to come himself, he was so far gone. 

The sudden, sharp pain brought Celebrimbor out of his reverie, and even as he heard his father’s lower stifled moan - _quiet and hastily muffled where Finrod had been loud_ , he could not help but notice - he clumsily replaced the glass on the table with the others, wincing at the slight clatter it made – _had they heard? No, surely they could not have, please let them not have heard_ – and fled from the room out of the opposite door into the hallway, still slightly ajar as he had left it. 

His face still burned, his blood beating unpleasantly in his temples and the heat and pressure between his legs driving him to distraction as he tried to rearrange himself into some semblance of a collected appearance. Once out in the hallway, he half ran back in the direction of his own rooms. _It’s not far_ , he thought. _Please, let me not meet anyone on the way, please, please -_  

But even as the thought went through his mind, he found himself barreling headlong into another person who was coming around a corner, half-falling against the wall, trapping the one he had collided with between himself and the plaster corner. 

He drew back, mumbled apologies already on his lips, and horror crept up upon him as he saw whom he had all but knocked to the ground. 

Orodreth looked him up and down with obvious distaste, taking in Celebrimbor’s furiously red face and his rumpled clothes, one pale golden eyebrow lifting in derision. Celebrimbor was certain that he had not merely imagined Orodreth’s eyes lingering slightly on the bulge in the front of his breeches, which, though partially concealed beneath a loose tunic, suddenly felt horribly exposed. 

“I was just…” began Celebrimbor. He broke off, dropping an elaborate, courtly bow to conceal his attempt to twitch the folds of his tunic so that they would cover more. “Forgive me, lord” he said, straightening up. “I was just coming from my father’s rooms. I mean - ” he swallowed, wishing he could take those words back, certain his face was turning yet redder and wondering how that was even possible. “No, I mean that I was just speaking with our king Felagund and…”

“Were you” said Orodreth coldly, his face like stone. “And what did he say to you, I am given to wonder?”

“Um” said Celebrimbor, suddenly disconcertingly aware of how much Orodreth resembled Finrod in face and voice. Orodreth was a little shorter and slighter than Finrod, and his hair paler, white-gold, and with less of the lustrous sheen that Finrod’s had. But he had the same straight nose and full, finely-shaped lips, though they did not smile, the same golden-brown skin. 

And yet his face held none of the warmth Celebrimbor had often seen in Finrod’s. Even Orodreth’s eyes were colder, Celebrimbor thought, chips of sharp blue-green like shattered sea glass instead of Finrod's deep, calm green, flecked with gold. _Hard in judgment and slow to forgive_ , he thought. 

Suddenly he remembered Orodreth was waiting for an answer from him. “Ah… did I say _speaking_? I meant _seeking_. I did not find him, I am afraid. He’s not here. I shall have to try elsewhere, if you will excuse me…” he dropped another hasty bow and made to hurry off around the corner, but he felt Orodreth’s fingers close about his upper arm, holding him in place with surprising strength.

“I’ll tell you again. Have a care, Curufinwion” said Orodreth. “Your actions do not go unmarked, and neither…” he pulled Celebrimbor around, so that they were face to face once more, close enough to see the flutter of Orodreth’s pale eyelashes against his cheeks, spidery in the pale light of the lampstone beside them “…do your father’s. It may be that you will not like the consequences.”

Celebrimbor found himself wondering what Orodreth would look like wearing the Nauglamír. _Surely the bright gold would contrast with his golden-brown skin in almost the same way it did with Finrod, his collarbones just barely visible beneath the metal and the jewels_ … Celebrimbor shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of such thoughts. He pursed his lips, frowning as he tried to gather what dignity he had left to him. He pulled his arm from Orodreth’s grasp, none too gently. “Thank you, lord.” This time the bow he dropped was very shallow, almost – but not quite – mocking. “I will certainly tell my father of your… concerns.” And once more, he turned away from Orodreth, steeling himself not to look back as he felt his gaze follow him. 

Once he was safely back in his rooms, he locked and bolted the door behind him and collapsed on his back on the bed, kicking off his boots and pulling his tunic over his head, casting it in a pile in the corner to allow the air to reach his burning skin. To his surprise, he found himself still aroused and gratefully took himself in hand, only to bring himself off in a mere few strokes, biting down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood as he struggled not to cry out. 

He could taste blood in his mouth and feel the unpleasant stickiness on his stomach and his hand, but not wanting to move just yet he simply lay there, letting his skin cool, golden hair and a golden smile swimming into focus in his churning mind. 

\-------

Celebrimbor was working in the elegant dining room that joined his rooms to Curufin and Celegorm’s, sketching idly. His papers were spread out over the dining table and he was poring over a plan of the outer defensive architecture of Nargothrond, when his father walked in and sat down opposite him. 

“Is your desk not suitable for such things?” he asked, with a slight lift of his eyebrow. “I could ask to have it changed, or for someone to find you a different study entirely, if it is not fit for purpose.”

“Actually, I’m working at the table because I like it here” Celebrimbor said. He gestured about the dining room. “More open.”

Curufin, who had never to Celebrimbor’s knowledge worked in the same place as he ate or slept, gave a slight twitch of his lips to indicate what he thought of this. “As you like” he said, after a long moment, with another minute raise of an eyebrow. He went to the cabinet beside the long polished cherry wood dining table, opening it and looking inside, before closing it and coming to sit down beside Celebrimbor. “Can you believe this place?” he asked, watching his son’s face intently, “for while I was speaking with Findaráto yesterday, someone came into the anteroom and moved a glass on the sideboard. Nothing else, just the glass, and then left, apparently.”

“Really?” asked Celebrimbor, trying not to let his voice rise. “How strange.”

“Indeed. The servants are quite shameless menaces, really. It is enough to make me glad there are locks on the doors, and that I can hear through that door into the anteroom rather clearly.”

Celebrimbor tried not to gulp, as Curufin narrowed his eyes. “At least there’s that consolation, yes.”

“Such sneaking around the rooms of others is truly a flaw in the character, don't you agree?” said Curufin, quietly. “If it were a member of my own family, I should be very disappointed.” He gave Celebrimbor a meaningful look. “As, I am sure, would Findaráto. His trust in the house of Fëanáro and his charity towards us is somewhat... fragile, as is our position here.”

“That’s not what I have heard” said Celebrimbor. “They’re saying that more people follow you and Tyelkormo every day. It quite drives Artaresto mad.”

Curufin laughed. “Ah yes, of course. There is, at least, that consolation.” He grew serious again. “I meant what I said, though. All of us must watch our words and our actions, my son. Your uncle and I never let our guard down, and always maintain the utmost discretion. You must learn to do the same. Do you understand me?”

Celebrimbor found himself nodding. “Of course, Atar.”

Curufin smiled thinly, then looked down at Celebrimbor’s sketches. “Good. Now show me what you have been doing.”

\-------

“I brought you some peaches” said Finduilas, presenting him with a cloth-wrapped bundle. “It's the first year we’ve had a batch of them delivered since the Dagor Bragollach. I thought you’d probably be too lost in your work and in that head of yours to get any yourself before they were cooked up into pies and jam, so…” she spread her hands, blushing slightly. “I just thought you’d like them.”

“Thank you, Finduilas," said Celebrimbor, laying down his wire cutters with a genuine smile. He took a peach from the bundle. It was orange and pink, perfectly ripe, and smelled delicious. 

“I thought we could go sit in the second hall and eat them” she said, with a smile. “You work too much; I barely see you!” She offered him her arm. “Walk with me?”

He took her arm, and they went up to the columned gallery that looked down into the great lamplit hall of stone, their feet hanging over the edge. “Ereinion and mother have arrived at the Havens!” burst out Finduilas, after a while. 

"What? But I thought they were going to Barad Eithel?"

"Well, they _were_ at Barad Eithel, but then they were sent on. King Fingon sent a letter to tell us. Not six months after they arrived at court, and they were evacuating all the children of Barad Eithel and the surrounding villages, for it's too close to the front lines of the war, king Fingon apparently decided. Mother was sent with Ereinion of course, for Fingon would not hear of separating them after they had been entrusted to his care. Ereinion sent me a letter too, and he has grown up so much! He seems to love the king greatly, and will be sad to leave him behind, but he knows he must." She sighed with regret, then paused, looking behind them and dropping her voice conspiratorially. "It is not what father had been expecting or had intended, and he is angry, I think, that he was not consulted. It upset him to learn of it, but we have been assured they will be much safer, and he cannot gainsay the high king, of course." She smiled warmly. "But I, for one, put my trust in the judgement of king Fingon. I think they really will be safer on the shores of the sea. What do you think?"

Celebrimbor realised she had been bursting to tell him this news. The hope in her face warmed his heart to see. "I think you're right" he said, though misgivings clawed at his heart. _Will anywhere ever be truly safe again?_

“I was so glad to receive the news. I miss them awfully, of course, but one day, Valar willing, we will all be back together as a family again.”

_What must it be like_ , he thought, _to grow up with a family like that?_ _With a mother, and a brother, and a father who is bound by no Oath, and unconditional love between all? What a different childhood she must have had to me._ Then he remembered that Finduilas had grown up in Minas Tirith, before the fall of the fortress had forced her family to flee to the protection of Finrod in Nargothrond. _Perhaps that part is not so different._  

“I hope it is so” said Celebrimbor, finishing his peach in silence before continuing. “But why did your father not send _you_ with them, from the beginning? I always meant to ask.”

“Oh” she blushed a little, twisting a silver ring on her finger that Celebrimbor had never noticed there before. “He did try, but I talked him into letting me stay. I am betrothed, and soon to be married you see, and my beloved is here.”

“Congratulations!” said Celebrimbor, dropping his peach stone back into the basket and hugging her. He got the sense that she had been longing to tell him this too. _Perhaps she too has few people to confide in_ , he thought, with a sudden pang of pity. “Who is the luckiest person in Nargothrond then?”

“Gwindor” she said, her eyes going distant and a small smile appearing on her face. “Gwindor son of Guilin. Perhaps you’ve met him? He’s one of the gate guards, and he’s terribly sweet and dashing, and I love him, Celebrimbor.” Her eyes shone a little. "I really think we will be happy together."

Celebrimbor tried to recall Gwindor; the name was vaguely familiar, and he thought he could recall a long, serious face, handsome enough, with thick dark hair, but little else. 

“Well I wish you both joy” he said, and he was sincere, feeling a little happier himself merely looking at the excitement in her face. 

“Thank you” said Finduilas. “Oh, but you simply must come to the wedding!”

“I promise I will be there” he said, with a smile. “Another peach?”

\-------

It had happened, finally. 

He had known something must break, and soon, for too many whispers had filled the air, clustering between the carven walls, the confines of which seemed to draw closer every day.

_The mortal had to come_ , he told himself. _It had to be this way. Finrod knew, he foresaw it._ Celebrimbor did not know why he was so certain of this, but he was. _We can none of us change our fates, bound as we are, and one such as him least of all._

He felt sick with suppressed nervousness at the electric charge that seemed to crackle in the air in the days since the man Beren had come. Beren, the mortal who bore the ring that had made Finrod's eyes widen a little, his breath hissing out in a sound of surprise - and yet also resignation and even a flash of something that may almost have been _relief_ \- at the sight. 

_Such a small, simple thing, that ring_ , thought Celebrimbor, _and yet how much power it could hold. Power to tear this kingdom apart, as like as not._

Finrod stood upon the balcony set in the outer wall, where Celebrimbor had thought he would be. 

As usual, Finrod seemed to know that Celebrimbor was there before one would expect him to. “Come to see me off?” he asked, his tone mild. He turned to look at Celebrimbor, and the sun shone on his face. He was wearing the Nauglamír, and the milky grey light glanced off it, the light of a regular cloudy day transformed into something precious and beautiful. 

“So it is true then” said Celebrimbor, his heart sinking, though he tried to keep his tone neutral. “You are to leave with Beren. To go to Angband to seek the Silmaril.” He supposed the hope that he had dreamed it all had always been the slimmest of chances to cling to anyway.

“It is indeed” said Finrod, meditatively running the long, graceful, golden-brown fingers of his left hand over the ring finger of his right hand, the only one which did not wear a ring. Finrod’s hands were so elegant and beautiful, Celebrimbor found himself thinking yet again, trying and failing to avoid envisioning those fingers laced through dark hair, tracing paler skin. Jealousy curdled in his stomach. 

“I am to leave on the morrow” said Finrod. 

“But…” Celebrimbor tried to find something, _anything_ that he could say that would change Finrod’s mind, knowing already that it was futile. “But what about Nargothrond? What about… forgive me but… you cannot succeed. You must know that it is hopeless! You will be killed, every one of you.”

For a moment, Finrod fixed him with a shrewd and calculating look, and Celebrimbor feared he had said too much. Then Finrod’s gaze softened, and he sighed. His face suddenly took on a blank and distant aspect, his eyes looking far away, beyond the wall behind, beyond the waterfall and the great gates of stone before them, or so it seemed to Celebrimbor. “Nargothrond will survive without me” said Finrod. “Or at least until its allotted time, I think.” He smiled sadly, his eyes focusing again. 

"What does that _mean_?" Celebrimbor asked, his voice rising higher in his desperation. "What of your people?" _What of me?_ He already knew it was useless, the crying out of a petulant child. 

“Things here should remain almost the same, if all goes as I hope it will. Artaresto has already said he will take the crown. He will rule wisely and well." Finrod sighed with some regret. "Perhaps more so than I have.”

Celebrimbor must have made a face at that, for Finrod laughed. “Do not be so quick to judge him a poor ruler. Artaresto is cleverer and more prudent than most people give him credit for. Strong, too.” He spread his hands. “I fear that being always in my shadow has taken its toll on him though.”

“Mmm” said Celebrimbor dubiously, though he did not argue further. He thought about Beren, and then of the crown as it bounced and clattered onto the flagstone floor before Edrahil had picked it up with trembling fingers. He thought of the cold fire in Curufin’s eyes, and the dangerous, unreadable look in Celegorm’s. The ringing silence that filled the moments after. He frowned. “But what… what if you should die?” he asked in a small voice. 

There was a long pause, and Finrod seemed to look through Celebrimbor rather than at him.

“If I die” said Finrod heavily, meeting his eyes at last, “then I die, and indeed this may well the time for which I have seen my death will come for me.”

_To see the day you shall die, but not know when it will come; what must that be like?_ He could barely imagine. Celebrimbor felt his heart contract. “But surely it need not! _Possible futures_ , you said yourself. And this is a fool’s errand” he said, angry now. “You will never even make it into Angband, let alone come near the Silmarils. And even if by some chance you succeed, my father and my uncles will be forced to hunt you down and - ”

“Tyelpë” said Finrod calmly, laying a gentle hand on Celebrimbor’s shoulder. “You have not your father’s temperament; this I can see, and you are saying these things because you honestly care what happens to me. For this I thank you. But you must understand… this is what I _have_ to do, I think.” He turned to look up into the cloudy sky, as birds wheeled high overhead. “Prophecies are slippery things, Tyelpë, as is doom and fate, and even the Oath itself. They are words, all words, and words can work in strange ways.” Celebrimbor followed Finrod’s gaze into the bright sky, where the birds dipped and dived, rising on the thermals. “Take you, for instance.” Finrod looked at him appraisingly. “Now, one would expect you too be fated to take a certain path, but to me it seems that it need not be so.”

“What do you mean?”

“There will come a time, perhaps quite soon,” said Finrod, looking into Celebrimbor’s eyes in a way that made Celebrimbor draw in his breath, “when you will need to make a choice. A choice that you will not be able to go back on, for good or for ill. And though I cannot see what lies at the end of either path, I know that you will choose well.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Celebrimbor. “What will this choice be?”

But Finrod merely spread his hands out before him, smiling apologetically. “I am sorry, for I do not know. I can see no further into your destiny than that, for everything beyond is cloudy, in a state of flux still."

"What does it mean?"

"I am not sure, precisely. But I believe it means you will be able to choose your own path.”

“As you have chosen yours?”

Finrod laughed quietly, taking Celebrimbor's hand in his very gently for the briefest of moments, before releasing it. “As I have chosen mine. Let us hope that though they divide, our paths may one day meet again.”

 

\-------

 

That night, Celebrimbor dreamed. A dark pit, filled with nameless terrors with snapping, bloody jaws. His father, turning slowly to look at him, anger burning in his silver eyes. A bright sword. A tall figure speaking words he could not understand, but feared instinctively, on a level deeper than language. A broken body, impaled on a spear and shot through with arrows, a pale thing, ragged and bleeding. A blazing wheel of fire, turning and turning until he thought he would go mad with it.  
He awoke trembling, with tears in his eyes and rage in his heart. _Not real_ , he thought with relief. _Just a dream._

And yet still he thought, _Did I have a vision of the future?  Or was that the past? Or was it nothing at all, just a dream, a meaningless product of fear?_  
He spent a long time simply lying in bed, wondering what it may mean. _A possible future? A future that was already set in motion, certain to come to pass?_  
Was the future ever set, and certain to come to pass?  
He thought about Finrod’s words of the previous day, and resolved to ask about his dream, before Finrod left. 

He never did get the chance.

_You must not go_ , he wanted to tell Finrod again, as he and Beren spoke in hushed voices by the great doors of Nargothrond. _Please. This will end in blood, I know it._ Celebrimbor turned to look at his father and uncle, who were standing as still as two carven figures, watching Finrod intently. There was something in their eyes, something keen and sharp and hungry, along with the familiar curl of his father’s lip. Celegorm’s hands were balled into fists at his sides. 

As Celebrimbor watched, the great outer doors began to open. Sunlight filtered in, breaking suddenly through from behind the clouds, and Finrod turned to look into it. The light caught in his golden hair, a slight breeze lifting it around his face.

How he _smiled_. It half broke Celebrimbor’s heart to see it.

_Oh Finrod, what do you see in the future? Can there really be light and triumph at the end of your journey?_

_And if there is, what does that mean for father? For me?_

Yet Finrod’s smile, Celebrimbor thought, was also touched with a deep sadness, the sorrow of one who is foresighted, truly, and sees something coming that has long been forestalled, but which comes, in the end, as almost a relief. 

Horror slicked through Celebrimbor’s heart as their conversation of the day before ran once more through his head. 

_Finrod thinks he is going to die._

_Finrod is never wrong, not about things like that._

The smile on that beautiful golden face cut at Celebrimbor’s heart like a knife as Finrod turned away from him, from Nargothrond, from Curufin and Celegorm, and Orodreth who would rule in his stead, into the light. 

When he was gone, Celebrimbor looked back at his father and uncle. They had not moved, and they paid no attention to Celebrimbor. Huan stood in silent watchfulness at Celegorm’s side, as the brothers watched Orodreth across the hall, and he watched them. 

Celebrimbor, unnoticed and overlooked, slipped from the entrance hall and back to his empty workroom. 


	4. Chapter 4

Princess Lúthien sat in the cell with her back turned to the door, but even so Celebrimbor was under no illusion that she did not know he was there. Her voice, when she spoke was haunting, clear and beautiful, and yet hard-edged with scorn, sharp enough to cut.

“Come to have a look at me? To jeer, or to admire your father and uncle’s prize?” she said, into the darkness. She turned to look at him, her features as coldly beautiful and filled with loathing and contempt as her voice. “Or to commiserate with me in my captivity, Curufinwion?” Her lips twitched into something that was almost a smile. "I am sure you are able to empathise, at least."

Celebrimbor was momentarily surprised that she knew who he was, but he supposed the resemblance to his father was plain enough in his features. “Empathise?” He raised his lampstone, throwing light through the bars onto her face. She did not flinch or even blink at the sudden brightness, only carried on staring at him with an expression he could not quite identify. “It is you who is behind bars, not me.”

She made no answer, only a skeptical sound in the back of her throat. 

“You should give up this quest” said Celebrimbor lamely, after a moment of silence had passed. “It will destroy you. Trust me, it would be better for everyone involved if no one had ever brought the Silmarils into it. I’m sure there are other ways you can be with Beren, if that’s what you want.”

“You make it sound like your father and uncle plan to give me a choice” she said, angling her head backwards and raising an eyebrow. “But that's surprising… you seem to actually care about my feelings? Or make an effort to seem like you do. Interesting.” 

“All I want is for this not to end in bloodshed” said Celebrimbor. “If you were to - ”

“Curufinwion” interrupted Lúthien, sharply. “Frankly, I doubt that it is truly altruism and the desire to give sensible advice that drives you down to my cell in the black of night. I also know that it was not your father who sent you, in fact you come without his knowledge. What am I to make of that, I wonder?”

“It doesn’t matter” he said, desperate now. “You’re not a part of this, or at least you don’t have to be. Take their terms; whatever they've offered you is better than what will happen if you carry on, trust me. Stop your mortal from searching for the Silmaril, do whatever it takes. Just… get _out_ of this. Do what I cannot, while you are still free of the poison the Oath spreads to whatever it touches.”

“Ah, but see Curufinwion… I appreciate the sentiment, but your assumptions are all wrong.” Her voice was touched with sadness now, but something blazed in her eyes suddenly. “I am doomed already. My fate was set a long time ago, and I cannot deny it.” She scrutinised his face. “No more than any one of us can avoid the paths we have been set upon.”

_Do you really believe that? Do I?_ he wanted to ask, to shout the question at the world, to let it ring through these halls of carven stone. 

"Are you so certain of that?"

She gave him a long and level stare. "I am."

He bowed his head. "Then we have nothing more to say to each other."

"So be it."

Then Celebrimbor turned on his heel and left the cell behind, the sound of his blood and his breaths loud in his ears. But not loud enough to block out the ringing of her words in his mind.

\------

_The princess is gone._ Already the words were ringing through the halls of Nargothrond, whispered amongst the guards and repeated over the high tables of the lords and ladies alike. They seemed almost a question, inviting one to ask, _and what will happen now?_

Lúthien, it seemed, had stolen away in the night, and Huan with her.

Celegorm was in a blind fury. He paced the dining room that joined onto his own and his brother’s rooms and Celebrimbor’s, hands balled into fists. Curufin stood by the fireplace with his arms folded, his face flat. Celebrimbor sat at the writing desk, ignored or simply overlooked, scratching idly at an old drawing and pretending he saw nothing, heard nothing. 

“Brother” said Curufin, his voice impassive, “Huan was a hound of the Valar. His first loyalties were never to you. You knew that.”

Celegorm turned on him, his eyes blazing. “You always twist everything to make yourself seem like the one with all the answers, don’t you?” he snarled, letting out a sound that was half a laugh and half a furious sob. Celebrimbor unscrewed the lid of the ink pot and inked his pen once more, with exaggerated care and slowness.

“Stop it, Turkafinwë” said Curufin. “We’re better off without him, you know that. I won’t have you let it break you.”

Celegorm went still then, dangerously still. “It will not” he said lightly. “He will return." His face turned to a mocking grin, all teeth. "And you can _Turkafinwë_ me all you want, but it won't make you father."

Curufin frowned, shaking his head pityingly, seemingly ignoring Celegorm's last comment. “Betrayal… it does not work like that. Once it has taken root in his heart, it - ”

“Oh, what the fuck do you know about it?” hurled back Celegorm, turning his back on his brother once more, squaring his shoulders defensively. “No one you love has ever betrayed you. Do you even love anyone? Anything? You didn’t even care when your _wife_ wouldn’t go with you across the sea, you just turned your back and…” he took a long breath, and Celebrimbor looked down, studying his hands intently. Celegorm’s voice was sharp. “Would you care if _I_ left?” he let out a harsh bark of laughter. 

“That would depend on the circumstances of your leaving.” There was a chill in Curufin’s voice, a note of warning. “Let us hope that we never have to find out.”

Celegorm’s face was dark with fury, and he said nothing as he stormed from the room.

The silence stretched on between father and son, left alone together. 

\-------

Celebrimbor sat in his chair in his workshop, staring at the wall. Idly, he spun his tiny set of wire pliers between his fingers, pulling the magnifying lens on it sprung bracket before him to look down at the half-finished piece that lay on the table. It was a fine circlet, with silver and gold strands that twisted together in a stylised representation of the two Trees of old, set with an intricate pattern of minute emeralds and rubies as the fruit and flowers of Telperion and Laurelin. It was based on a long-refined stylistic line of Tree designs, a copy of an old masterpiece from Tirion that his father was having him emulate in exact detail. _For_ , Curufin had said, _your proper education has been interrupted, and though copying is of course, tiresome, it is a requisite step of the teaching of any artist_. _That was how I learned, and it was even how my father learned, at the beginning._  

Celebrimbor had to admit that the design - that he had copied from a drawing in a book - was beautiful. And he could not help but feel a swell of pride at the intricacy of his own work, too. 

But it was unfinished, and he had not the energy to carry on with it now, he found; he simply could not bring himself to take up his tools again and start working on it.

He sighed. He had come down here to try to stave off a little of the restlessness that drove him to pacing his chambers, to hear something other than poisoned whispers in the air. Yet now he simply sat, paralysed and rooted to the spot. He looked through the door into the forge that adjoined the workshop, left ajar; the familiar red glow was at present cold and dark. 

He sighed, clasping his hands to stop their restless motion. 

He felt as though he stood upon a brink, his mind filling in his fears with taunts. He remembered, long ago, standing upon the walls of their fortress at Himlad, looking down to the ground, and what the wind had whispered to him. _Will you jump, Tyelpë? What would happen if you jumped? Oh, you would fall. What would it feel like to fall? Why don't you see? It's only a little step over the edge. Why, can you feel the wind tugging at your heels?_

He had always drawn back then, the morbid curiosity retreating. Yet it had always returned, that call of the irreversible decision, the one step that would change everything. 

_Perhaps we are all of us standing on the brink now, waiting for the choice; the fall._  

There was no wind, at least, in Nargothrond.

He thought of Finrod then, and the choice he had foreseen, wondering when it would come. 

_Perhaps I will only know it when it is passed, and the choice cannot be undone._

He remembered times, many years ago, taking up a hammer from the rack in the forge, looking down at a beautiful jewelled dagger hilt, a fair pendant, any work he had made, any work he had been proud of. He had thought, then, as he held the hammer in his hand, _what would happen if I brought it down? What would happen if I smashed the metal until it was twisted, broken? If I destroy something beautiful, where does the beauty go? I will never get it back. So much can change in a single instant._

In those times too, he had always pulled the hammer back, putting it away quietly and chiding himself for thinking such ridiculous, wasteful thoughts. 

He stared blankly at the fair circlet on the table, barely seeing it as he tugged unconsciously at a loose thread at the sleeve of his tunic.

\------

Celegorm and Curufin were arguing again. Celebrimbor could hear them in the next room, the door between them slightly ajar. He supposed they must know he was there; he supposed they simply did not care. 

“Tyelko, are you so naïve as to think that we cannot easily lose all the support that we have here? Do you think they will hesitate for one _second_ before turning on us? Already your actions - ”

“ _My_ actions? Bringing the princess here was your own _void-damned stupid_ idea, Curvo, or did you conveniently forget that?”

“You were the one that wrote a letter to her father declaring you wanted to _marry_ her. I counselled you against it, I said, did I not, that it would only inflame the situation, that - ”

“Oh, because you’re so clear-headed and intelligent and I’m a slave to my own lust?” snarled Celegorm. “Is that what you’re trying to imply? Don’t tell me that your _attachment_ to dear sweet Ingoldo, fucking you on his pretty silken sheets of a night was just a matter of strategy, brother, I’ve seen the way you were around him. You destroyed him, yes, but sometimes I think he’s destroyed you too. Tell me, at what point in the proceedings did you get distracted from trying to corrupt his fair fucking golden highness and become his little bitch?”

There was a guttural growl, and the sound of scuffling. “Don’t you _dare_ suggest I forsook our cause for him, let anything slip. Not for one _moment_.” snarled Curufin. “I had him on his knees -  no, _don’t_ – I had him falling at my feet. I could have crushed him in my hands at any moment, and it would all have come together - ”

“ _Really_.” 

“Yes. And if your incompetence and complete insensibility to our delicate situation hadn’t gotten in the way, then - ”

“ _My_ incompetence? _My_ insensibility? Ah, but of course, now that your golden king is gone and your mouth is no longer full of his cock, then you are able to use big words again. I can see you are relishing that chance, at least. I - ”

There was a smack of flesh on flesh and a quiet whimper, like that of a dog that has been beaten, and then a louder thud, followed by a grunt, and Celebrimbor winced. 

“You…” Celegorm sounded as though he was too furious to speak. He drew in a long breath. “Every move you make, every time you strike me, it only makes things worse for you.”

“What are you going to do?” Curufin’s voice was mocking, dripping with bitter sarcasm. “Betray me? Go on then, Tyelko. Leave Nargothrond; go crawling back to Nelyo at Himring, but don’t expect him to be pleased with what we – what _you_ – have done here. Don’t expect him to be _kind_.”

“To the Void with Nelyo’s opinion. _You’ve_ never cared what he thought of you in your life” spat Celegorm. 

“No” said Curufin. “But _you_ always did.”

Celebrimbor could almost imagine Celegorm grinding his teeth sullenly. 

“And I know someone else whose opinion you always cared about” said Curufin silkily, his composure seemingly regained. “ _Atar_. Or am I wrong?”

“Oh, so this is about him now?”

“When was it _not_ about him, pray tell? We both swore the Oath, Tyelko. You cannot simply drop it, pretend it never happened.” Celebrimbor imagined his father’s lip curling. “You always were such a child. You’re lucky to have me; no one else in this family is doing anything else productive, nor has the courage to seize blatant opportunities when they present themselves.”

“You really do care only for yourself and for Atar, don’t you? Do you chant the Oath before you go to sleep? Do you cry it out loud when you touch yourself, all alone in your bed at night, little brother?” There was something wolfish to Celegorm's words, something savage and dangerous.

“No, but perhaps _you_ should" said Curufin dryly, impassive. "It might help the part about the _everlasting darkness_ stick a little better in your mind.”

“Oh believe me, it does. I just fail to see how your subtle, intricate schemes are going to help us avoid it.”

“What would _you_ suggest then?” The sarcastic bite in Curufin’s voice was back. “What would you do if they actually _got_ the Silmaril, hmm? Simply ride up to the them, ask them to give it to you, and if they don’t, just slaughter them?”

“ _Yes_ , as a matter of fact! Exactly that.”

There was a short pause, as Celebrimbor stared at the wall between himself and his uncles, horrified. 

“Fool” spat Curufin. “That will never work.”

“It worked for Atar, with the ships.”

Another short pause. “Yes, but - ”

“Curvo, think. With the strength of the east, all of Nelyo’s and what’s left of Káno’s people at Himring…”

“It would never work. The situation is quite different from Alqualondë, as you well know. These are not unarmed mariners, taken by surprise. Against Doriath, or even Nargothrond, we would all be slaughtered ourselves. We must try to find another way, if your tiny mind can comprehend anything more sophisticated than simply taking what you want by force.”

“Well, _you_ suggest something” snapped Celegorm. “Something that will actually help for once.”

“I suggest we wait.”

“Oh, well I wasn’t expecting _that_ \- ”

“No, listen Tyelko. Currently, there is not the barest chance they will get near the Silmarils, honestly. But if we wait for Beren and Lúthien to be slain in the attempt…”

Curufin was still talking, but Celebrimbor was no longer listening. New horror slicked through him like iced water. His mind was spinning with the conversation he had overheard, a sick feeling washing over him anew. _Is this what my life is to be, too? Killing over and over, for the hope of the light that I am bound to by my birth?_

And yet always, the germ of a thought burned in the corner of his mind.

_They took an Oath. But I did not._

That line of thinking seemed, somehow, like a dangerous one. 

He pushed it to the back of his mind, to be considered later, and quietly let himself out of his room, taking the stairs down to his workshop once more. 

\-------

Finrod was dead, came the news.

Slain by the tearing jaws of a cruel wolf, the escaped captives said, the news driving into Celebrimbor like a knife through the heart. 

The fact that he had been expecting it any day now did not dull the pain at all. 

_You did not deserve to die in the dark_ , he thought, his own heart feeling as though it was tearing at the seams. _You were a creature of the light, brighter than any of us._

He dreams were empty, a silent blackness filled with only dread, only swirling chaos and uncertainty. 

\-------

“Come, Tyelperinquar.”

The words were cold, his father’s voice with an edge of steel, cutting through the still air of the silence that hung in the hall, scything through it like a blade. Fury had twisted as a spasm in Curufin’s face the dismissal from Orodreth, and Celegorm was at his elbow, his own face still a mask of molten rage. But now Curufin’s face was back to its usual practiced stillness, like a flat, glassy pool, closed and opaque. Celebrimbor stared into those familiar silver eyes, so like his own, mind suddenly and inexplicably blank. Memories rushed over him then, Finrod as he had stood on this exact spot at the gates, turning as the doors of Nargothrond opened, as he prepared to leave with Beren. The milky daylight had broken over his face, the outside wind beginning to lift and stir his golden hair, just a little. Finrod had not returned, and Curufin had stood and watched, motionless as he was now, as Finrod had given him a long stare before turning away, looking resolutely upwards and forwards, into the light. 

That light was before Celebrimbor now, the light that seemed a rare thing after spending so much time underground, even hurting his eyes a little. _The same light that Finrod had stood in... where was Finrod now with his golden hair and golden smile? Was he in Mandos, illuminating those dull grey halls with the very light of his fëa? Or did he walk in the brightness of Aman once more, the light that Celebrimbor barely remembered? Was he laughing, reunited with his brothers? With his lover?_  Celebrimbor ground his teeth, looking back at his father.

Curufin and Celegorm were haloed by that light as the sun came out from behind a cloud, turning them into mere dark outlines, black shapes cut out of the brightness. He could barely see their faces, but he did not need to. Celegorm’s hands, he knew, would be balled into fists once more, his face full of hatred. 

Celegorm had Huan at his side again, and was staring at Orodreth, whose feet were planted squarely apart in the very centre of the entrance hall behind Celebrimbor. Celegorm would not be looking at his eyes, but at his crown, the slim band of silver that was barely heavier than a circlet but that Orodreth wore as though he must strain to keep his neck upright under the weight. He was not as good at that as Finrod had been, thought Celebrimbor. 

Curufin, though, was not looking at Orodreth but directly at Celebrimbor. Then the sun passed behind a cloud again, and suddenly the moment was gone, and Celebrimbor could see his father’s features once more. Curufin’s face was hard, his lip beginning to twitch with impatience. “Tyelperinquar “ he said once more, stretching out a hand into the space between them, and Celebrimbor remembered that his father had been waiting for him to reply. 

_What would happen if you stepped from the edge of the cliff? If you smashed something beautiful to pieces?_ He felt his fingers trembling, fear and insatiable curiosity and something like exhilaration surging up in him from he knew not where.

_If you looked into the light, would it hurt your eyes?_

_This is it,_ he thought. _The last of my fate that Findaráto could see. Whatever I choose now, I will not be able to turn back from._

He felt as though he were already falling. 

Celebrimbor looked at the outstretched hand. He looked at his father, as he had seen him when Finrod left, face impassive as carven stone. He thought of Curufin and Celegorm bringing in the captured princess, locking her in a cell. (For her safe-keeping, they had said, but their eyes had frightened Celebrimbor.) Then he remembered the cold, hard, stone wall he had leant against, absurdly, outside Curufin’s chambers, the cold glass against his skin. Listening to the sounds coming through the door, hating himself for it. Not being able to stop. His father’s eyes later, as if they could see right through him, seeing his shame, burning him from the inside out. Accusatory, warning, but also pitying. Disappointed. 

_That was the very worst of it_ , thought Celebrimbor. _He wanted me to be him, and he wanted himself to be his father, but neither of us could be the great Fëanáro. He was always disappointed, and always would be. And the rest of the time, he simply forgot I was there._

“Tyelpë, what are you waiting for” snapped Curufin, impatient now. Suddenly Celebrimbor was very conscious of all the eyes on his back, the people of Nargothrond who had gathered to watch the brothers’ expulsion. “Come.” The word held power in it, burrowing inexorably into his mind. Celebrimbor gritted his teeth, pushing back a little, almost imperceptibly, but he felt his father’s thoughts recoil a little from his.

“Tyelpë - ”

“No.” The word was so small, so easy, and he felt it tumble from his lips almost before he could stop and think about what he was saying. “No” he said again a little louder. 

Curufin blinked, his mouth twitching at the corner. “ _No?_ ” his voice was quiet, silken and dangerous. “Don’t be foolish, Tyelpë. Come. You shame us.”

His father had always been good at gauging the reaction of an audience, thought Celebrimbor. Always performing, aware of what _they_ were thinking. He pressed his lips together. “Then I shall shame you no more” he said quietly, his lip curling. “I will not go with you. I want no more part in any of it.”

“Enough of this, Tyelpë. You bring shame not only on us but on yourself. Where is your regard for - ”

“No” Celebrimbor brought his hands up before him, speaking in Sindarin and raising his voice a little, so all could hear. “Stop. You have heard my answer.” He looked back over his shoulder at Orodreth, who was watching with a mixture of disbelief and mistrust. Celebrimbor hoped he looked and sounded stronger than he felt. “I swore no Oath to you. _I will not go with you_.”

“You swore no oath to the house of Finarfin, either” Curufin’s mouth twisted, his eyes filled with coldness. “Or are you planning to? They will not trust you, you know… do you honestly think you will have a place - ”

“He will have a place” Orodreth broke in suddenly, coming up behind Celebrimbor and touching his arm. There was steel in his voice. “Your son is innocent of your crimes, but you, my _lords_ Curufin and Celegorm, are not welcome here.” He frowned at them. “Now get out before I give the order to set the dogs on you.”

Celegorm flashed a quick look at Huan, still and silent at his side. A tiny frown appeared on Celegorm’s brow, but he let out a bark of humourless laughter, disbelief and anger crackling below the surface. “You think you can - ”

“Yes, actually. I can.”

Curufin held up a hand to silence Orodreth. He was still looking straight at Celebrimbor. “I must say, I expected… better.” His voice was quiet, his face hard as stone. 

_He has no power over you,_ Celebrimbor found himself repeating desperately inside his head.“Then I am sorry to disappoint you, father” he said quietly, but aloud this time. 

Curufin stared back into his eyes for a long moment, many expressions seeming to flit beneath the surface of his face, though his gaze remained steady and detached. Celebrimbor managed to hold that silver gaze, somehow, though it cost him all the strength he could summon not to look away, not to even blink.

Finally Curufin broke the ringing silence.

“ _Never_ ” he said, his face hardening suddenly to flint, “call me _father_ again.”

And with that he turned away, seizing Celegorm roughly by the arm, and the two of them were gone, out of the great doors and into the brightness without. Celebrimbor was left alone in the middle of the hall, his mouth hanging a little open as he watched Curufin mount his horse in the sloping paved courtyard beyond the gates, the wind whipping his black hair as he rode away with Celegorm at his side, Huan turning his head back for only the briefest instant before loping off after them.

The great doors were closed behind them, as Celebrimbor stood there, half disbelieving, half in shock.

_Now I am the unfaithful dog_ , thought Celebrimbor miserably. _No,_ said another voice in his head. _You are faithful, but to yourself; you did what was right._

He wondered if he would ever fully believe that. 

He could feel the eyes of the people on him as he walked from the hall, his head held high and his cheeks burning red, every nerve in his body screaming at the thought of what he had just done. Finrod had said he had a choice to make. Now he had made it, rightly or wrongly, and he knew with a sick sort of certainty that there truly was no going back. 

As he passed, Orodreth caught him by the arm. “It seems” he said, in a quiet, slightly disbelieving voice “that I may have misjudged you, cousin.”

Celebrimbor inclined his head, and their eyes met. Orodreth’s strange, bright blue-green gaze was searching, less cold and hard than before, but seemed still to pierce him, trying to see inside his heart. 

Suddenly Orodreth gave a pained smile and released his arm. “Go” he said. “We have much to speak of, but now, I think, is not the time.”

Afterwards, Celebrimbor took the steps down to his workroom as though half in a dream, despite the waves of shock and anger and fear that were crashing through him. Walking as steadily, as purposefully as he could despite the trembling that was starting in his limbs, he picked up the jewelled circlet - still half finished - gripping it too tightly, so that the metal bit into his palms. With a growl of pain, he walked through the adjoining door into the forge.

He laid the circlet gently on the anvil, and took up a heavy hammer. 

He swung it high above his head and brought it down, over and over, silent tears filling his eyes and streaming down his face as he smashed the circlet into twisted metal, jewels smashing into fragments that bounced away to the floor in a glimmering shower. 

Afterwards he hung the hammer neatly back where it had been before, and sat down on the floor against the wall with his head in his hands.


	5. Chapter 5

It was the first time since he had come to Nargothrond that he had felt as though the walls were closing in on him. 

His body and mind felt as though they were on fire, burning slowly, as he made his way back to his rooms as though he were in a dream. 

Unable to bear the forge or his workroom any longer, he drifted back up to the wing that had been his and his father and uncle's, now so empty. 

He felt his feet carry him to his bedchamber, and for a long time, many hours perhaps, he simply sat on the neat bedclothes, listening to the silence. 

After a while he rose and paced restlessly, then walked back down to the forges. With a sudden shout of fury, he kicked over a heavy barrel of water, wincing slightly at the way it crashed onto the flagstones, drenching all, and at the sharp pain in his foot at the impact. 

He did not fire up the furnace; he was not sure he could trust himself that anything that he created now would not be a twisted abomination, a broken product of bitterness and the chaos twisting inside his skull, a single thought refusing to go away. 

_What have I done?_

\------

The next day, Celebrimbor was in the training yard in the long underhall, practicing his sword strokes. It was very early in the morning, and no one else was there yet, not even the guards. 

It was what he had wanted. 

He used his own sword, not one of the blunted practice weapons that hung along the sidelines. He spun and slashed out, parried and dodged invisible opponents as gracefully as though he was dancing, trying to let the exertion sing in his blood, trying to treat the sword as a beautiful metal extension of his arm, rather than a weapon designed to spill blood upon the ground. 

The exercise did not leave his mind as blank as he had hoped.

“You are a fair swordsman. I did not know.”

The voice startled him, and Celebrimbor skidded to a halt in the sand-strewn practice yard, catching his balance after a moment. He tugged at the strands of hair at his temples that had come loose from the band that bound his hair high on his head, away from his face. “My father taught me” said Celebrimbor, before he remembered, and his face fell. “I mean - ”

“I know what you mean” said Orodreth, not unkindly. His hands were twisting restlessly together before him, seemingly unconsciously. “Actually, I… had something I wanted to ask of you.”

Celebrimbor blinked, sheathing his sword carefully and wiping the sweat from his brow with his tunic which he had cast to the side earlier, leaving his chest bare. “Whatever your wish, I will do my best to fulfil it, your highness.” He wondered, with a flicker of worry, whether he sounded mocking in his humbleness. But where courtesies were concerned, today at least he erred on the side of caution, conscious of how few friends he likely had within these walls now. 

“I would like…” began Orodreth, and he seemed to be hesitating. Was that _embarrassment_ in those icy blue-green eyes?“I would like you to have a look at... this.”

He drew a velvet bag from the wide sleeve of his robe, taking from it something bright, something gleaming… 

Celebrimbor drew in his breath. “The crown?”

Orodreth nodded. “It… it does not fit me well” he said, looking straight into Celebrimbor’s eyes as though daring a challenge. “I will need someone to refit it for me, a skilled smith.”

“Me?” asked Celebrimbor, incredulous. “But I… I am not…”

“Not your father?” asked Orodreth, bitter amusement behind his eyes as he looked up into Celebrimbor’s. “Well, quite.”

“Surely there must be others…”

“Oh, must you make me spell it out?” Orodreth sounded impatient now, a little of his old shortness coming back. “I’ve seen your work, you are just as skilled as any we have here, if not more so. And you have something that they do not.”

“What?”

“Discretion” said Orodreth, his mouth giving an ironic twitch. “These days, the city swarms with those who would happily… spread _lies_ about me." Orodreth rolled his eyes. "Such snakes -  your father and your uncle's remaining people, for example, falsely sworn back into loyalty to the house of Finarfin - are most likely to be found amongst the jewelsmiths, the craftsmen… all who associated with the house of Fëanor." Orodreth shrugged, then inclined his head, giving Celebrimbor a piercing look. "I suppose they think they have little to lose by betting on both sides. No matter; they shall be proven wrong, in time. But they are not my concern right now. _You_ are. Because you have _everything_ to lose should you spread treacherous lies, I should say. Wouldn't you agree, Curufinwion?”

Celebrimbor blinked. _Blackmail? Well, it's rather heavy-handed, but still I would not have expected it from this one_ , he thought. “I agree,” he said, a little warily.  

“Good.”

“When would you like it fitted?” he asked, trying to remember the days when he had practiced the making and fitting of circlets, already wondering how he could adjust the crown seamlessly. 

“Today would be the best” said Orodreth. “For us both.”

\-------

They stood in Orodreth’s solar – once Finrod’s, for Orodreth had moved to the royal apartments – and Celebrimbor wrapped a length of measuring tape around the crown of Orodreth’s head, standing on a step, his tongue clamped between his lips in concentration. He got down and jotted the measurement on the paper on the table. “And that’s done.” He squared off his papers neatly, straightening up and standing before Orodreth. They were of a height, he noticed; Finrod had been taller. Orodreth looked into his eyes, sweeping his shining curtain of hair back over his shoulders and pulling it quickly into a loose braid. Celebrimbor watched his nimble brown fingers move over the white-gold curls and waves for a time, before realising he was staring and tearing his gaze away. “Thank you” Orodreth said. “And remember, I will expect discretion.”

“Of course” said Celebrimbor, and turned and left the king standing alone in the room.

\------

He walked down to his workshop slowly, deliberately, the mithril crown of Nargothrond wrapped in linen in his hands. When he got there he closed the door and placed it on the desk, unwrapping the cloth almost gingerly. He thought, with some shame, of the circlet he had broken into pieces here, only a few days ago. 

The crown was very beautiful, and for a while he simply sat and looked at it, caught suddenly in a memory of its bright silver band against golden hair. _And then against pale white-gold…_ after a while, he realised he had not moved in several minutes, and gave his head a small shake. 

He took up his tools, and began.

\------

“I must say” said Orodreth, touching the crown sitting perfectly upon his head, running his fingers slowly over the delicate interlacing metalwork, “that many times I have nursed doubts about you. But this time, at least, you have not failed me.”

Celebrimbor could not resist a slightly mocking smile. “Well thank Eru for that. Who knows what you were planning to do to me, if I had failed to achieve perfection?”

“Probably merely cast you out” said Orodreth, his voice bland, uninflected. 

Celebrimbor blinked, uncomfortably unsure of whether the king was joking. 

He was just formulating a response when Orodreth spoke again. “You did right, you know” he said, sounding pained. “And… and I admire you for that.”

“For renouncing my father?”

“Yes, and for not being _like_ your father.”

 _I may yet turn into my father_ , thought Celebrimbor uncomfortably. _The blood of the spirit of fire runs strong, they say_. “I thank you for your kind words” he said, bowing.

As he stood and turned, Orodreth grasped his arm, even as he had done before. Celebrimbor turned to look back at him, and drew in his breath at the mixture of emotions chasing each other across Orodreth’s face, before the king released his grip with a sigh.

That night Celebrimbor dreamed once more of golden hair and black, mingling and twisting into rills and streams of flickering shadow and light until morning.

\-------

“My people” said Orodreth bitterly, “do not believe I can live up to my predecessor.” He looked up at Celebrimbor, something like desperation in his fair face, across the table, on which stood two wine glasses and a large, nearly empty carafe. Beside it was the elegant, inlaid wood box that held the crown of Nargothrond when it was not being worn.

“Such is the fear that we all must bear” said Celebrimbor, taking another sip from his wine glass.

Orodreth raised an eyebrow. “You suppose that everyone in the world feels themselves crushed beneath the legacy of those who have gone before?”

Celebrimbor smiled wryly. “I think only the unbegotten are exempt from that. Perhaps not even them.”

He meant it as a joke, but Orodreth did not smile. “You have spent much time considering such things then, have you?”

“I suppose so. Yes.”

Orodreth stood up, and walked around the table to where Celebrimbor was seated, scrutinising him. Celerbimbor stood up too, looking Orodreth in the eye. For a while they held each other’s gaze; Orodreth was frowning slightly, as though trying to work out a complex problem. 

“What were you to Findaráto?” asked Orodreth, abruptly. 

The question took Celebrimbor by surprise. “Nothing” he said. “I was…” the words caused a pang in his heart, his voice coming bitter and thick. “I was _nothing_ to him.”

Orodreth ignored Celebrimbor’s distress. “Your father then? What was he to Findaráto?” 

“He was…” Celebrimbor struggled for words, feeling his face heating up. “He was…” 

It was some small mercy at least that Orodreth did not make him say it, make it real, for he turned away with a muffled curse. “Of _course_. But _why_? Answer me that. Why? What did your father have? Why were so many of our people… why was Findaráto… why would they choose _him_? What did _he_ have, that they wanted?”

Celebrimbor gave a bitter chuckle. “If only I knew that, my life might be a lot easier.”

The two of them stood staring at each other once more, the king and the Fëanorian, and Celebrimbor thought how bright Orodreth’s hair looked in the lamplight, _white gold transmuted into the true metal, almost, blazing in the leftover brightness of one who is gone…_ their minds touched each other briefly, but it was not as it had been with Finrod. There was no gentleness here, only the collision of two sad, stricken _fëar_ , the connection was too ragged and painful to maintain for long. And yet it was hard for them to break apart fully, although their minds had clashed. 

But, Celebrimbor thought, they were not only two isolated minds. 

They had bodies also.

They were already standing close, but the kiss was sudden, deliberate and forceful, a tangle of fingers knotted through hair, and lips caught between teeth. Celebrimbor groaned a little into it, and did not even try to convince himself he was not imagining himself to be kissing Finrod. 

He did not dwell on the question of whom Orodreth was picturing.

Celebrimbor felt a hand around his waist, pulling him in closer, trapping him uncomfortably between Orodreth’s body and the edge of the table. He pushed back, letting his hands grasp Orodreth and pull him up so that his weight rested over Celebrimbor, bearing him down to the edge of the inlaid wood. But Orodreth grasped a handful of the front of his robes and, suddenly, pushed him back down onto the daybed in the corner of the room, holding him there with more strength than Celebrimbor had thought that the king possessed. 

Not that he struggled against it much.

And then they were unlacing each other’s breeches – not bothering about the rest of their clothes - without speaking any more, no words left. No sound but their heavy breaths and the urgent sounds they made. 

It was quick, Celebrimbor thought after, wondering belatedly if he should be embarrassed. Orodreth’s hand on him, his pale hair spilling down over Celebrimbor’s face and neck and chest in a loose curtain, and the sounds that he himself could wring from the composed king of Nargothrond left him undone and spurting his seed between their bodies, making a sticky mess of the front of his tunic as Orodreth came just after, with a cry that he hastily muffled, as though fearing someone was listening.

Afterwards they lay side by side, touching along the outside of their forearms. That at least, Celebrimbor thought, was strangely tender. Orodreth looked at him, regarding him coolly with those inscrutable, bright seaglass eyes. 

\-------

By now, Celebrimbor was not surprised when Orodreth summoned him to his rooms in the late evening.

What did surprise him, though, was that Orodreth was not there when he arrived in the comfortable royal parlour. He stood there pacing on tiptoe and gazing around restlessly as he waited, his eyes lighting on a finely made wooden box placed casually at one side of the table. 

He frowned. It was larger than the display box that held the crown of Nargothrond, ornately carved and set with jewels, though its design was more elegant than ostentatious. 

He thought he knew what he would find within.

He moved to straighten the box, to align it with the table, out of habit. But then, his curiosity overcoming him, Celebrimbor tested the lid, lifting it just on the off chance that it would open, for there was no key there.

To his surprise, it was not locked. 

He caught his breath at the sight of the gold and jewels, catching in the light of the lampstone. 

 _The Nauglamír_. Celebrimbor had seen it before of course, many times, but not since Finrod had worn it clasped about his neck. 

“Admiring the craftsmanship?” said a voice behind him, and Celebrimbor started, turning hastily even as he let the box’s lid fall with a snap.

“Oh, don’t worry” said Orodreth archly, coming into the room and standing beside Celebrimbor, folding his arms. “I do not begrudge you the sight of this treasure, for all that you did not ask permission.”

 _He must have planned this_ , thought Celebrimbor as he regarded Orodreth. “Forgive me” he said, dropping the slightest ironic bow. 

“You are forgiven.” Orodreth picked up the box, held it up to the lampstone, inspected the underside. “Let us take this into better light. I had wished to show it to you properly.”

He led Celebrimbor through the doors into the royal bedroom, where Celebrimbor had never set foot before. Orodreth handed Celebrimbor the box, and went to light the candles that stood in brackets about the walls. He lit them one at a time, slowly and deliberately, filling the room with a soft, golden, flickering glow, rather than the harsher blue-white lampstone light. Celebrimbor watched him, though his eyes strayed often to the wide four-poster bed with its green and golden hangings. Finrod had slept here before, he knew. 

Orodreth returned and took the box back from Celebrimbor with a sigh. He opened it, looking down at the necklace within. “It was not made for me” he said, and there was sorrow in his voice. 

“No” said Celebrimbor, and the silence stretched between them, a silence that was like a pause in a line of music, a held breath. 

Slowly, meeting Orodreth’s eye in a silent request for permission, Celebrimbor picked up the Nauglamír, holding it up to the light. It was heavier than he had expected. Turning towards the mirror in its gilt frame, in front of which Orodreth stood, he made to place it around the king’s neck, above his wide open-necked tunic, where it seemed to fit the cut of the stiff velvet perfectly. _Yes, he definitely planned this, meticulously._

Orodreth lifted up his hair from the nape of his neck, and the candles turned the creamy-pale, lazy curls of it to spun gold. _Or near enough_ , thought Celebrimbor. He closed the carcanet’s heavy clasps at the back of Orodreth’s neck, with three quiet, decisive clicks.

Orodreth turned back to face him, and his expression was one of determination, and then he was kissing Celebrimbor fiercely and hard, pushing him up against one of the carven bedposts. His hands tugged impatiently at Celebrimbor’s clothes – Celebrimbor had not changed out of his rough and somewhat soot-stained working clothes – and they fell down to the bed together in a tangle of fabric and hair and grasping hands. Once Celebrimbor’s chest was bare, Orodreth was licking and sucking along his collarbones, all teeth and determination. He broke away only to allow Celebrimbor to divest him of his tunic and breeches, leaving him dressed only in the Nauglamír, gold and jewels blazing bright in the candlelight against heated skin. 

It was different than it had been before, in some way that Celebrimbor couldn't quite pinpoint. 

In that moment, he did not especially care to try.

Celebrimbor kissed Orodreth’s throat above where the necklace sat, not caring whether he made marks upon the skin. _He can wear a high collar tomorrow; Valar knew Finrod often had._ In fact, Celebrimbor wondered if Orodreth _wanted_ him to leave a mark, or half wanted it, with the keening sounds of pleasure Orodreth was making. 

The metal was warming gently in contact with his skin – both their skin – and just when he began to be lost in pleasure, grinding down against Orodreth, the king grasped him by the upper arms and deftly turned them both over, so that he was braced over him, spilling Celebrimbor’s loose hair across the pillows in a dark pool. Orodreth’s face was mostly in shadow, but Celebrimbor could see the bright reflections of the candles like little flickering pinpricks in his eyes. 

Orodreth was stripping Celebrimbor’s trousers off then, with some impatience, though he did not take him in hand yet. 

He drew back a little, and Celebrimbor took the opportunity to raise himself up off the bed and sweep Orodreth’s hair off his shoulders, behind his back, in order to bare more of his golden skin, kneeling up so that their mouths were level once more and kissing him savagely, the two of them swaying together upon the bed, half-unbalanced, half-falling in their desperate, clumsy haste. 

When he broke away, Orodreth was smiling a little, almost knowingly. 

Celebrimbor, making a quiet sound at the back of his throat, turned Orodreth around and pushed him back down to the sheets, and Orodreth let him, allowing himself to be pinned there, the jewels upon his neck and chest catching the light. 

Celebrimbor trailed a line of heated kisses down Orodreth’s side, letting his teeth tug a little at the flesh each time, pausing at one nipple and at the bottom of Orodreth’s ribcage, tracing out the corner of his hipbone before letting his mouth go lower, lips softening to brushing kisses. By the time he finally came to take Orodreth in his mouth, the king was twitching and bucking impatiently under him. With his mouth full of Orodreth’s hard cock, all he could do was feel the hands that twisted in his hair, clenching in appreciative little convulsions as Orodreth neared his climax. Celebrimbor could feel his own aching hardness, at the thought, the tension building inside him, longing for some friction to speed his own release.

“Stop” commanded Orodreth suddenly, unexpectedly, his voice commanding. 

Celebrimbor raised his head.  

“Get on your back, Curufinwion.”

Celebrimbor felt a frisson run down his spine at the steel in Orodreth’s voice. He obeyed, yet he couldn’t resist a small jab at Orodreth. “Can’t make up your mind, your highness?”

“Oh, no,” said Orodreth, reaching over to the side table to get a small, cut-crystal bottle of oil with a jewelled stopper shaped in the form of two intertwined golden snakes with bright emerald eyes, “I know _exactly_ what I want.”

Celebrimbor felt himself tense as Orodreth pressed a slicked finger inside him, working it in before adding another and causing Celebrimbor little sparks of pleasure as his fingers collided with a particular spot. After a little while, Orodreth smiled, a half-lidded indulgent smile, lifting Celebrimbor’s hips up off the bed, and pushed inside him. 

They knew each other’s bodies a little better now, but this time it was different, somehow, with Celebrimbor writhing spread-eagled across the bed, his feet braced amongst the rumpled sheets as Orodreth thrust inside him. Orodreth’s hands around his cock were deliberate, determined and skilful in finding what he wanted, and Celebrimbor came too quickly once more, if he had had enough thought to spare for such things, far gone as he was. 

Orodreth bit down hard on Celebrimbor's collarbone as he shuddered towards his climax a little later, the metal of the Nauglamír pressed up against Celebrimbor’s lower chest, caught between their bodies. 

\------

The next time, it was in Celebrimbor’s own rooms, the ones that had been occupied once also by Celegorm and Curufin, far too big for a single person.

It was Orodreth who came to him, late in the night.

The dining table where Celebrimbor was in the habit of working was still spread with his notes and drawings – _more open_ , he recalled explaining to Curufin, what felt like half a lifetime ago – but now Celebrimbor himself was pushed back against it, his hand sweeping pieces of paper and pencils to the ground as his fingers scrabbled in pleasure – the other hand dragging Orodreth closer into him, his nails leaving welts on his smooth golden back - as the king of Nargothrond thrust inside him once more, pushing them both dizzyingly towards climax. 

After, Orodreth pulled his thick velvet robe back on over his rumpled and disordered clothes, tugging and smoothing it down as neatly as he could. Celebrimbor found it a strangely endearing gesture. 

He stood up, his shirt still hanging open to the waist as he tied up the lacings of his breeches, eyeing Orodreth’s attire. He wore day clothes, despite the lateness of the hour, though Celebrimbor had not noticed before. 

“Do you not sleep?” Celebrimbor asked. “Or do you simply keep yourself awake to wait through the black watches of the night for a time when it is safe to come to me?”

“Both” said Orodreth, “I do not sleep much anyway, for I am troubled increasingly of late by dark dreams that I… I do not know the meaning of. But I think they show something of the future, at least.”

Celebrimbor thought of Finrod and the advice he had given him in the six-sided courtyard, so long ago, and Finrod’s gentle fingers on his temples. “Findaráto tried to teach me” he confided. “Some time ago, I asked him to tell me how to learn to have prophetic dreams.”

Orodreth shot him a suspicious look. “I did not know that the ability to dream prophetic dreams ran strong in the house of Fëanáro. Or is it from your mother’s line that you get the skill?”

“I never _had_ the skill” said Celebrimbor. “Not from my family, at any rate. But he assured me I could learn it, with practice.”

Orodreth raised an eyebrow, looking more incredulous by the moment. 

“He said I should practice learning to control my dreams” said Celebrimbor. “And he did something… in my mind.” He blushed. “I never asked precisely what. Some touch of ósanwe, to free my mind, to open it to the future, to make me better disposed to prophecy… what?”

Orodreth was frowning. “No, that can’t be right. It runs in the blood. Or at least it tends to. People have been known to learn, through many years of practice, or to discover the talent within themselves late, even with no family history beyond the fact that all Quendi dreamed the future at Cuiviénen, or so they say. But unlocking something in your mind?” he looked curiously at Celebrimbor. “What exactly did he say to you?”

Celebrimbor cast his mind back and tried to remember Finrod’s precise words, but found it difficult, distracted as he had been at the time. “He said… well I had begged him to teach me, so he put his fingers to the sides of my head and touched my mind with his. He must have done something, although I felt nothing particularly beyond the regular touch of ósanwe. Then…” he tailed off, as he saw Orodreth shaking his head and looking sympathetic. “ _What?_ ”

“You never did dream anything clear, did you? Nothing that was an obvious, distinct future.”

“Well, no, only short little wisps of what might be, and those I could only barely remember in the morning… but I did rather neglect my practice…”

“Oh Tyelperinquar.” Orodreth sounded genuinely sympathetic. “Take it from one of the house of Arafinwë… that is not how prophetic dreaming works. There is no _switch_ , nothing to change in the mind of one who has not the skill, not with all the ósanwe in the world. And though people can learn, it take years, centuries, to progress in any significant way. It is an art. I am afraid…” here he hesitated, just slightly. “I have to tell you… Findaráto lied to you, Tyelpë. He did nothing to your mind. It was an act.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No… but the visions!” 

“Were unclear, and you could barely remember them in the morning. You said so yourself. That’s typical of untalented beginners, who have not the skill in their blood to begin with. If you had had a true prophetic dream, you would know, believe me, and if you saw anything that turns out to be part of your future, it is coincidence, like as not. I am sorry.”

“But…” Celebrimbor’s head was spinning. “But _why_?”

Orodreth sighed. “I imagine because you said you _wanted_ to learn. Findaráto was… he was… well, he liked to give people what they wanted. He liked to feel like he was doing something _good_. A little touch of ósanwe, a few words to make you feel like you were progressing…” he spread his hands. “What harm could it do?”

“I don’t believe it.” 

“Fine. Then don’t believe it.” Orodreth folded his arms over his chest, his jaw set. “It doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Go” said Celebrimbor, anger suddenly surging up in him out of nowhere, anger and grief and humiliation. _Always so credulous, scrabbling on the floor for scraps of affection from his golden king whom he had never really known at all, it seemed._ “Just go. Please?” he added, after a moment. 

Orodreth nodded, looking slightly sorrowful. "Perhaps that's best." And with that he swept from the room in a silent swirl of robes.

When he was gone, Celebrimbor thought of Finrod’s face, letting it swim back to surface of his mind from where he had pushed it away. 

_Do I hate you for telling me lies?_

He wanted to. He did not want to. 

He sat down at the table, laid his head on the disordered and crumpled sheets of paper, and let the tears come at last, urgent and burning against his skin. 

\-------

 

Celebrimbor stared morosely into the mirror, tracing the lines of his own face, so much paler than usual from having lived underground for so long. 

His features were as they always had been; his straight, rather long nose, his thick, dark brows and his silver eyes. They were his father’s features too though, he thought resentfully, and Fëanor’s before him, passed down almost identically. Even his face was not his own, and never would be, no matter that he had renounced his kinship with the house of Fëanor. 

 _Curufinwion_ , he thought. _But I am not Curufinwion, not anymore, by my own declaration._

 _But if you are not Curufinwion_ , said a small, cruel voice, _then who are you?_

_I am Tyelperinquar. Celebrimbor._

_And who is that? What is Celebrimbor's path to be in this world?_

To this he had no answer.

Orodreth’s words were ringing in his head. _It runs in the blood._

_Will blood force my steps through all my days upon this earth?_

_Findaráto told me I was not bound my blood, before he went off to die._

_He lied to me._

_He lied because he wanted me to be happy._

_But still he lied._

Celebrimbor thought of his mother. He had been such a young child when he had last seen her, that he found her features grew blurred in his memory, a child’s recollections, all melting into sounds and colours and feelings. 

He could see no hint of her in his features.

He looked at the palms of his hands. 

 _Tyelperinquar, hand of silver._ _Named for the skill of my hands, foreseen at my birth, a prophecy that would one day come to be._

_But if I have no name any longer, what of these skilled hands? What right have I to make beautiful things, if even my name no longer fits?_

He rubbed his palms together uncomfortably, clasping his wrists, feeling the tendons move beneath skin. Then stared into the mirror and traced his jawline with a finger, thinking involuntarily of his uncle Maedhros. Maedhros, who had spoken against Fëanor openly, when no one else had dared to. Maedhros, who had been tortured and broken, had been rescued from Angband and come back changed, his hand cut off at a wrist reduced to a bloody ruin. His face slashed across with jagged scars, his once-straight nose broken and badly healed in several places, barely recognisable to the small, frightened child Celebrimbor had been at the time. 

Celebrimbor tried to imagine losing a hand, but couldn't. ( _Who would I be, without my hands of silver?_ he thought, bitterly. _Why, barely more than the nobody-in-particular I have been reduced to anyway, perhaps_.) He wondered what it would feel like to have his face gashed and clawed, his features marred beyond recognition. 

His eyes strayed momentarily to the dagger in its sheath on the table at his side. 

Then he sighed bitterly, eyes flicking back to his face in the mirror. _No, it would make no difference._ Even when Maedhros had healed, the look of the house of Fëanor was still there in his face, in his movements and his speech, and Celebrimbor knew that he himself had it too. 

There was still one thing he could do though.

Picking up the dagger, he brought it up to the single long braid of black hair that fell over his shoulder, steeling himself to cut it off at his jawline. 

His fingers trembled, gripping the knife and the thick, heavy braid very hard, but, try as he might, Celebrimbor could not bring his hands to cut through the hair. 

With gritted teeth, he lowered the dagger and flung it across the table with a shout of frustration. It skittered across the tabletop and hit the mirror's frame, chipping a piece out of the finely carved wood. 

He sat down heavily in the chair and dropped his face into his hands once more. 

Celebrimbor wanted to weep, but no tears came. He wanted to shout, to scream and break something, the frustration he thought he had shaken off clawing at him once more, but at the same time he could not bring himself to move or make a sound. All he could do was sit there in one place, until the candle burned down to nothing and went out.  

The sudden darkness brought him back to himself again. 

He sat up, tugged loose the binding and shook his hair free of its braid, running his fingers through it. Then he carefully pulled it into two neat braids at his temples, the repetitive motion of braiding calming him in itself, a little. 

He paused a moment, and twisted the rest of his hair up into a high knot on top of his head, as he had seen some of Nargothrond's courtiers wear. Then he looked in the mirror once more, regarding himself appraisingly. He picked morosely at the eight-pointed star design in the tooled leather of his old, worn-in sleeveless jerkin. After a moment, he unlaced it down the front and cast it aside, before going to the wardrobe. 

He wanted something plain to wear, something without the sigil of the house of Fëanor upon it. His fingers lingered on green brocade, then on red silk, on supple black leather and fur, before touching the sleeve of a pale, silver-grey tunic, the heavy velvet still stiff from little wear. He smiled slightly. _If the only name I am to have is silver, then silver I shall be._ Pulling it on and doing up the delicate, engraved fasteners and the high collar close about his neck, he turned to look in the mirror, at his unfamiliar appearance. 

He looked different, older, he thought, with a mixture of satisfaction and apprehension. 

Drawing in a deep breath, he walked out of the room and out into the court of Nargothrond once more. 


	6. Chapter 6

“No” Orodreth told the emissary, whose surcoat was emblazoned with the eight-pointed star in silver on red, the colours used at Himring. “No. Nargothrond will send no aid to any son of Fëanor.”

“With respect, your highness,” said the messenger, as the whole court looked on in silence, “the alliance is _called_ the Union of Maedhros, yes, but truly you would be fighting under the banner of the high king…”

“I will not be fighting under anyone’s banner, if the sons of Fëanor are truly pulling the strings. I will not aid them in some futile attempt to get back those accursed jewels. I cannot risk the lives of my people for such a cause.”

“My king” spoke up Gwindor. “Nargothrond still owes fealty to Barad Eithel.”

“True” said Orodreth. “But _would_ we be fighting for Barad Eithel, I ask you?” he addressed the hall as a whole. “Is it not known to be the case that high king Fingon is truly ruled in heart by Maedhros son of Fëanor?”

There came some protestations from the assembled watchers, but a greater number of exclamations of agreement, even cheers. Orodreth continued, deliberately not looking at Celebrimbor, though he tried to catch the king’s eye. “And what good have the traitorous sons of Fëanor and their desperate quest ever done us here? I say none. I say we do not rile the enemy in his own land, but defend our own borders, with stealth and prudence.”

Gwindor was frowning. “It is not right” he protested, shaking his head. “High king Fingon - ”

“High king Fingon has paid little enough heed to Nargothrond before, and _our_ wishes” said Orodreth coolly. “And now he does not even see fit to send his own emissary when he comes asking for our help in this assault?” His eyes lingered upon the eight-pointed star on the messenger’s surcoat and the standard he bore, his lip curling a little in distaste. 

“This effort will unite the peoples of Beleriand under one banner, your highness” explained the messenger. “The house of Fingolfin and the house of Fëanor are allied, and with us will march the Edain of the west, as well as many mortal men from the east, the Naugrim of Nogrod and Belegost, and - ”

“Are you suggesting” said Orodreth icily, “that I should feel _honoured_ to lead my people, wide-eyed with idealism, behind the sons of Fëanor into this… this death trap?”

“It is no death trap” insisted Gwindor, from behind Orodreth. He stood side by side with Finduilas, and Celebrimbor saw her squeeze his hand, fear in her eyes. “Not necessarily. If all the valiant peoples of Beleriand can be truly united under one banner…”

Orodreth turned on him. “Why though? It is peace time, or the nearest we are ever likely to see again. Why stir up the north, for at best we will succeed and the price in lives will still be high. We may well bring final destruction down upon all our heads. Either way, many will die, who would otherwise have lived. The Enemy is not at our doors. I say let us guard our own borders, and so not bring disaster and death down on ourselves without cause.”

At this there were a few outbreaks of clapping and cheering from the assembled lords and ladies around the throne room. Orodreth scanned the faces that looked on, his face like stone. He met Celebrimbor’s eye, but his gaze did not linger or waver, or even change at all. 

“No” he told the messenger, “I will not risk my people’s lives unnecessarily, nor march with any son of Fëanor. Tell your masters that.”

“And what about those of your people who want to risk their _own_ lives?” said Gwindor, standing forward suddenly.

Orodreth gave him a long look, several different expression flashing across his face all at once. “Then they are free to do so. But not as a soldier of the king of Nargothrond. It will be for their own honour alone that they shall fight, or for whatever they hope to gain from it.”

Gwindor nodded, bowing respectfully. “I thank you, my king.”

\---------

"Pardon me" said Celebrimbor quickly, making to retreat from the stone gallery with its elegantly fluted columns. "I did not think… sorry, I will leave you."

"No" said Finduilas, looking away from Gwindor who raised his head to look at Celebrimbor too. "Stay for a while."

Hesitantly, Celebrimbor came to stand by the couple, looking between them in concern. Both of their faces were paler than usual, but hardened, determined. 

"Are you still set on this course?" Celebrimbor asked Gwindor, although he knew the answer. 

Gwindor nodded, slowly. "My only regret is that I was unable to bring the king around to the cause. If he would only send more people, all of the troops that Nargothrond can muster…"

"Celebrimbor" Finduilas interrupted, "could you not talk to my father? I have tried already; all I want is for Gwindor to be protected, to be surrounded by many warriors and not to have to fight alone." She squeezed Gwindor's hand. "But my father will not listen to even me."

"I fear he will not listen to me either" said Celebrimbor with a pang of sympathy for her. "But I will see what I can do." He knew it was no good, that Orodreth would not relent - _if not for his daughter then certainly not for me_ , he thought - but the pain in Finduilas' eyes left him helpless, unable to refuse her.

"Faelivrin - " began Gwindor, shaking his head.

"Let him _try_ , at least!" burst out Finduilas. 

"My course is set already" said Gwindor gently. "I go for my brother's sake, and for the honour of the house of Guilin, and to do my part in this war. But your father has a city to protect. And he hates the sons of Fëanor, and he is not well disposed towards king Fingon either, especially after he sent your brother and mother away."   He turned to Celebrimbor. "Orodreth thinks that this was the reason for the unnecessary evacuation" explained Gwindor. "He thinks that they were sent away for no cause, with the high king thinking only of his own glory and his standing with the house of Fëanor." He faltered. "No offence meant."

"None taken" said Celebrimbor. "I don't think the house of Fëanor claims me as its own anymore, anyway."

"Then you must be the one to try to convince father" pled Finduilas, again. "Have him send _someone,_ at least. The company that is to go is so small…"

"We will be fighting alongside the high king" said Gwindor. "In the greatest gathering of the free peoples that Beleriand has ever known. We will win this, and I will avenge Gelmir. Then, my love, I will come home to you."

Finduilas' face twitched into a quick, weary smile at this, before her apprehension returned. "If only I could be certain of that."

\--------

Orodreth's fingers were running across the strings of the beautiful pearl-inlaid lute that was an heirloom of the house of Finarfin in Beleriand, playing an intricate little falling trill. But when Celebrimbor voiced his question, he clapped the flat of his hand against the strings, with a discordant sound. "No" he said firmly. "I am entirely tired of being begged and beseeched to send out my people to be slain on the whim of some son of Fëanor. I will hear of it no more." He looked up at Celebrimbor in annoyance, his hand still hushing the lute strings. "Though I must say, of all people I wouldn't have expected it from you. Did Gwindor put you up to this? Or do you fear for your father's life?"

"He is not my father" said Celebrimbor automatically. "And it was not Gwindor who _put me up to this_ , as you put it. It was your daughter." 

Orodreth looked a little chastened. "Ah, yes, poor girl. It is hard for her. I only hope she does not hate me for it, should he not return."

"If you would only send - "

But his words were lost, as Orodreth suddenly put down the lute and rushed to his feet, coming close to Celebrimbor and grasping a handful of the front of his tunic. "Stop" he said, through gritted teeth. "Do you know how hard this is already? No. Of course you don't, you twice dispossessed no one, because you have never had a kingdom to rule, a people to keep safe, or to please and win over." He laughed bitterly. "For Valar forbid I try to do both." 

Celebrimbor, taken by surprise by this outburst, could only blink in surprise and hurt. But even as he was trying to formulate a response, Orodreth subsided with a bitter sigh. He sat down and dragged a hand through his loose hair, falling about his shoulders in a tousled white-gold mass as though he had made the same motion many times before today. He picked up the lute and played a few more notes. "I am sorry" he said, after a moment. "That was… unkingly."

Celebrimbor suppressed a snort.

Orodreth narrowed his eyes. "I can see your mind, you know. You barely keep it hidden." 

"As though I ever forget it" said Celebrimbor, who had actually become better at blocking the contents of his mind even from Orodreth, lately.

Orodreth sighed. "Go back to your forge, Tyelpë. You are better as a smith than you are as either messenger or rhetorician."

Celebrimbor frowned, watching Orodreth's elegant, dextrous fingers trip idly across the strings, playing no music but random notes. The lute was of the old Telerin style, a nostalgic reflection of Aman in the years of the Trees. It had been designed and commissioned by Finrod, from the renowned luthiers of the Falas, and inlaid with the mother of pearl work that Círdan's people were known for.

Suddenly frustration and nameless, formless anxiety overtook Celebrimbor, and he wanted nothing more than to lie in someone's arms and have the world disappear, his anger and his failure to convince Orodreth - as he knew he would fail - curling to nothing like paper set in the fire. "I'd rather stay here, and demonstrate to you where my _true_ qualities lie, my king."

Orodreth stopped playing once more, his hand lying flat against the soundboard. He narrowed his eyes again, a slight, knowing smirk appearing on his face at the defiance in Celebrimbor's stance. "Alright. I suppose I am open to some… discourse on _that_ subject."

As Orodreth's fingers tangled in his hair, dragging his head back to expose his throat to the king's mouth, it was not only lust that flushed his skin. Shame boiled through him once more, for he knew he had failed in his promise to Finduilas, had let himself be swayed too easily. 

 _And yet_ , he thought bitterly, _what is one more failure, one more broken promise? I am built of things that could have been_. 

He pushed Orodreth against the wall, kissing him savagely and trying to forget.

\--------

The entrance hall was already packed with those who would see Gwindor lead his small company off to war, many of the people of the city looking at least a little chastened, though not, Celebrimbor thought, enough to make them want to risk their own lives at their captain's side.

Celebrimbor had briefly entertained the notion of going into battle with Gwindor, but the thought had barely even taken full form in his mind, what with the black looks that crossed Orodreth's face whenever the subject was mentioned in his hearing. And, Celebrimbor knew, if went to battle and returned he would have likely lost the only one left well-disposed towards him in the entire city. 

 _In the entire world_ , it seemed sometimes. 

No; leaving had never been a serious idea. 

As Gwindor turned towards the great doors out into the bright morning outside, Celebrimbor thought about how no one who left that way ever seemed to come back.

\-------

Finduilas was sobbing in her father’s arms, and Celebrimbor looked on from the other side of the hall and knew not what he could do.

The news had come yesterday, that Gwindor had fallen in the battle, and was feared slain or worse, captured. 

Celebrimbor shuddered at the thought, thinking of Maedhros once more and all the things that had happened to him that he himself, as a child, had never been told, but had merely imagined in the darkest depths of nightmare. 

Yet Maedhros, he knew, was one of the lucky ones, for he had been freed before they could take his whole self from him, send him mad from pain and the cruel visions that the Enemy forced into the mind. 

He watched Finduilas weep and felt powerless, more so than he ever had since he had arrived here. 

The battle had gone ill, this much they did know. Celebrimbor had heard that the high king was dead, and that the sons of Fëanor wandered houseless in the woods of the east, always fleeing danger. He tried to imagine that, and then he tried to imagine fighting in the battle himself, and fleeing into the woods. _That would be my life too_ , he thought, _if I had made a different choice. How one decision can change the course of a life, forever. Or I would be dead, perhaps, in the battle._

_Would anybody weep for me?_

He tried not to think too much about that question. 

\-------

The years slipped by mostly unmarked, until _he_ came. 

Agarwaen's face was strange, in the way that mortals' faces were sometimes, although he looked oddly like one of the Quendi, Celebrimbor thought. The resemblance made him uncomfortable, and it was not the only thing about him that did. _Has not Nargothrond learned its lesson in meddling in the doings of mortals?_  

The man could fight though, Celebrimbor gave him that. He had cleared the surrounding areas of orcs, it was true, yet there was something there, something Celebrimbor could not quite place, a kind of heaviness of doom upon him. 

And then there was Gwindor, who came with him. 

At first Celebrimbor had thought Agarwaen one of their own people, travelling, for reasons he could not imagine, with an orc.

He had never told anyone that he had thought this before the horrible recognition of his old friend had dawned on him, and he never would. 

He feared for Finduilas, seeing the colour drain from her face in fear almost, struggling to hide her shock as her hand flew to the ring she still wore upon her finger in her grief. She touched it as though to reassure herself that the love she had known once had not been just a dream, and a moment later she was expertly hiding her momentary shock at his scarred, twisted features, his missing hand. Saving Gwindor's feelings, Celebrimbor knew. And she was good at it, but for that first moment. 

Celebrimbor suspected that Gwindor had probably seen her momentary fear, though. 

He pitied them both. 

And when Finduilas' eyes began to flicker to Agarwaen, he felt anger, sadness, and fear for what may come next, but he did not feel any surprise.

\-------

“The designs are almost finished… I tried to stay as close to the specifications as possible” said Celebrimbor, as Orodreth looked over his shoulder at the drawings spread out across the table before him. “But are you _sure_ about the bridge? What happened to isolation, and keeping Nargothrond to itself? And why should we listen to the mortal? This _Agarwaen_ , if that is even his real name… he is a stranger here. He's not who he says he is, I'm certain of it.”

“Oh, he's certainly not who he says he is," said Orodreth unconcernedly, "mostly because he didn't really _say_ anything."

"Well, that's exactly what I - "

"He's _useful_ , Tyelpë. And I would have thought you would be in favour of trusting useful strangers who come to one's door" said Orodreth lightly. "Having been one yourself once."

 _Useful_ , thought Celebrimbor sourly. "The situation is different" he said.

"How?"

"Well, he's…" he tailed off, gesturing weakly, and Orodreth smirked with maddening triumph. 

"His ideas are sound, and I trust him” said Orodreth firmly. “That should be enough for you.”

Celebrimbor gave a wry smile. “Don’t worry, I am not questioning your authority. I’m just questioning whether this is truly a good idea, since one of the reasons for not going out to fight in the fifth battle was to better close our borders.”

“Our borders will still be closed to strangers” said Orodreth. “But Agarwaen is right, I believe. We cannot survive much longer with stealth attacks and arrows amongst the trees. If the enemy is to come to us, surround us anyway, we must meet him head on. Besides…” Orodreth smirked at Celebrimbor as he stood up and turned, their eyes meeting. “One would think that the head engineer in charge of the project would be a little more enthusiastic, especially since it the first time he has been in such a position. And that it will dramatically increase his currently rather pitiful and divisive standing amongst the most respected craftsman in this city.”

“One might” said Celebrimbor, his tone neutral. 

For a long moment their eyes locked, before Celebrimbor turned away, with a sigh. “Forgive me” he said. “I must get back to the drawings.”

Orodreth nodded distractedly, toying with the jewelled pin that bound his tunic at the throat.

He left Celebrimbor for a while, then, but later he returned with a challenge dancing in his eyes. Dawn found them spread-eagled across Celebrimbor’s bed, naked and sweat-soaked. Orodreth had fallen into a light, fitful sleep, and Celebrimbor watched a tendril of his hair moving a little as he breathed, where it fell across his face. Orodreth slept curled tightly into himself, his arms and legs drawn protectively up to his chest, turning his back to Celebrimbor as he tossed in his sleep. 

Truly Celebrimbor envied him even the ability to rest at all, in these times. 

Something was coming, he knew, a vague menace just out of his sight. 

He watched Orodreth’s sleeping face from above and to the side, eyes flickering quickly beneath his lids, and Celebrimbor wondered what the king saw when he slipped into dreams. 

\-------

Finduilas wept in his arms when she knew, and all that Celebrimbor could do was hold her and try to whisper comforting nonsense in her ears. 

In truth, he thought, he had probably known that she had fallen in love with the mortal, and out of love with Gwindor, before she had, it had been that plain on her face. Or before she had let herself consider it, at least. 

Finduilas raised her tear-stained face to look at him. "Oh, Celebrimbor" she said, shaking her head with a bitter, pained laugh. "Why did everything have to turn so _complicated_?"

He smiled sadly. "Things do have a habit of doing that, don't they?"

"Gwindor and I…" she pressed the heals of her hands over her eyes, wiping her tears away roughly. "We had it all planned out, everything was perfect, and then… then I had to go and…"

"Finduilas, listen to me, it's not your fault" he told her, leaning down to her eye level to meet her gaze. "You know that, don't you?"

"Then whose fault _is_ it?" She sounded so desolate it made his heart ache. "I was never good enough for Gwindor, I see that now. He deserved better than me…"

"Finduilas, no…"

"Yes. And Agarwaen, the Mormegil… Thurin, I called him…" for the briefest moment a soft smile came into her face, lighting it warmly, before the pain snapped back into place "…he deserves better than one so inconstant and faithless as me, too."

 _How the things we are taught of love drive us to hate ourselves_ , thought Celebrimbor, with sudden clarity. "No" he said firmly. " _You_ deserve better than _him_."

At this Finduilas laughed bitterly, her eyes full of pain. "Then why is it him that I want? Even though I know he does not love me? Why can I not banish him from my mind?"

To this Celebrimbor had no answer, so he simply held her in his arms as she cried hot, frustrated tears, hoping at least to be able to bring her some scant comfort. 

\-------

Celebrimbor had not stood out on the terrace and looked down on the Narog for a very long time, but now his feet took him there, though he did not quite know why. 

He stood and watched the rainbows dance in the spray for a while, listening to the sound of the building work that was going on far below, figures like tiny ants hurrying about their work. 

The bridge was nearly finished, and despite his misgivings, Celebrimbor felt a strange sense of pleasure to see his meticulous drawings come to life, built in solid stone. _At least_ , he thought, _they will not say the structure is unsound_. 

"Admiring your work?" said a voice behind him, from the corner of the gallery. He had not turned to look when he had come through the doors out into the comparatively bright light without; he had assumed it would be deserted. But now he felt a sinking feeling as he turned his eyes on the person he wanted to see least. 

The mortal sat on the railing, leaning against a column that half hid him from view. He held a sword across his lap, and a whetstone. Celebrimbor supposed he had just finished sharpening his blade, and felt a flash of annoyance. _He may be the best swordsman in Nargothrond, but must he really spend the remainder of his time proclaiming it with his every action?_

"I would have called it _your_ work" said Celebrimbor tightly, all pride in his own skill momentarily overridden by annoyance with the man before him. 

"I would not claim it so" said Agarwaen. 

"Unlike you to be so modest."

Agarwaen laughed, a strange bark of a sound. "Perhaps."

Celebrimbor stared at him, wondering where the quick temper he had heard so much of had gone.

Agarwaen lifted the sword that lay across his lap in its scabbard, and got up to come and stand beside Celebrimbor, looking down at the river. "It shall prove a great asset to us all in these times" he said, indicating the bridge. "You'll see. Nargothrond must fight. We cannot simply sit within our walls with only stealth and arrows between us and the darkness that gathers. We must come out and meet it head on at some point, you know."

Celebrimbor felt unpleasantly like a child being chided for shirking some petty, dull responsibility. "Yes of course, Agarwaen son of Úmarth" he said coldly. "I am sure that rushing headlong into fights has always served you well."

The mortal's face twitched, as though a painful memory had crossed his mind. "They call me Mormegil now" he said quietly. 

Celebrimbor raised an eyebrow, his eyes flicking to the sword.

Agarwaen must have seen him looking. "Its name is Gurthang" he said, drawing the blade and showing it to Celebrimbor, the sunlight glancing off a blade that looked almost like black glass, like no metal Celebrimbor had ever seen. "It is cruel and fair, both." A shadow crossed his face once more. "It is a blade well suited to its wielder, I fear."

"May I see?" asked Celebrimbor, curiosity overtaking him. 

The man presented it to him, hilt first.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, inspecting the intricate detailing on the pommel in fascination. He had never seen any weapon like it, even were it not made of that strange metal that seemed almost to drink in the light in places, and in others to shimmer in many colours like oil on water. "Do you know who the smith was?"

"I do not" said Agarwaen. "As to where I got it…" he paused. "It was given to me, by a dear friend of old. That is all I can say, I fear."

Celebrimbor nodded, distracted. He gripped the blade in his hand, testing its balance and weight. It even compared almost to his father's work, he thought. He swung the blade in a circle, testing it. Then he sighed, handing it back to Agarwaen, hilt first. "If you ever see this old friend of yours again, ask them where in the world they got such a strange blade, will you?"

Agarwaen's smile was weary, and touched with pain. "If we should ever meet again" he said, "then yes, I will." He sheathed the sword.

They stood side by side once more, staring down at the river. 

Suddenly Celebrimbor turned to look at Agarwaen, with narrowed eyes. "The princess Finduilas feels… very strongly for you" he said. "You don't love her, that much is plain. But it seems you hold her heart in those bloody hands of yours, _Agarwaen son of Úmarth_. And if you break her heart, or if you cause Gwindor's heart to break for her, I would like you to know that the king will hear _exactly_ how you've been so maliciously trying to seduce his daughter, driving her to distraction by leading her on and dropping her at the last moment, always pulling back."

"But" began Agarwaen, "that's not even - "

"And also" said Celebrimbor "there is some shadow of evil that surrounds this blade. Some terrible crime, I know it. At the very least, I'm sure the king would be… _intrigued_ to know that you are hiding something of its past deeds."

"You wouldn't tell him. You haven't the spine for it, to lie to the king." His eyes narrowed. "Don't think I don't know about you and he, you filthy - "

"Who said anything about _lying_?" said Celebrimbor, pleasantly. "Are you doubting the truth of what the king himself _believes_ to be true?"

Agarwaen's eyes narrowed. "You Fëanorion snake. I knew your sort were rotten to the - "

"I am no _sort_ at all" interrupted Celebrimbor mildly. "And I am certainly no Fëanorion. My father made that clear enough."

"Then what are you?" spat Agarwaen, gripping the scabbarded sword hard. "You're _nothing_ , that's what you are. _Nothing_."

"No" said Celebrimbor. "Not nothing. Not of the house of Fëanor, either. I am something _new_."

And with that, Celebrimbor turned inside once more and left the mortal standing there, a strange sense of accomplishment coursing through him.

\-------

"Something's coming" said Orodreth, his eyes hollow and rimmed with grey and red, lack of sleep showing in all the lines of his face. "I can feel it."

"Have you been dreaming, these last nights?" asked Celebrimbor, rising from the bed and pulling his tunic back over his head and buttoning it up tight to the neck. 

"Yes" said Orodreth, with a slight wince, enough to tell Celebrimbor that whatever Orodreth had seen with foresight had made him uneasy.

Celebrimbor had to admit he had felt the general sense of doom that hung over all of Nargothrond for a while now. 

Orodreth sat on the edge of the bed, his chest bare still and his curtain of white-gold curls hanging dishevelled and yet perfectly beautiful over one shoulder. "Perhaps the bridge was a mistake."

Celebrimbor did not answer, staring right back into Orodreth's eyes which pierced him with their brightness, blue-green as chips of ice still, but now wide, in search of a vindication. 

There was none that Celebrimbor could give. And so he merely sat back down beside Orodreth on the bed, taking him by surprise by kissing him fiercely once more. 

\-------

When the dragon came, he was half-expecting it, almost.

"Get everyone out" Orodreth was shouting, barking out orders to each of the captains of the guard, even as he buckled on his armour in the entrance hall. 

"Where is the Mormegil?" asked Celebrimbor, catching Orodreth's arm as the king swept past him. "Has anyone seen him?" _The one time his presence would be worth something…_

Orodreth simply shrugged, pushing past Celebrimbor to more important duties.

Celebrimbor pulled on his own armour, so long unused since his own flight here from the dragon's burning in the east, and picked up his sword, feeling the comforting weight of steel in his hand. 

He rushed out to join the fray. 

"Finduilas" he said, catching her arm as she ran past him, shouting orders at a group of women and children whom she was attempting to get to safety through the back way. "Are you - "

But his words were lost in an enormous explosion of rock and dust from overhead, followed by a fireball hot enough to scorch, billowing into the cavernous hall through the hole that had appeared in the ceiling. 

"Finduilas" he said, gripping her arms and panting, "we need to get everyone out. Where is Gwindor? Find him, and stay with him if you can. Can you…" but at that moment a tide of panicked, faceless people rushed past, tearing her from his grasp. 

"Finduilas!" he shouted, but then there was another blast of flame from overhead and he had to duck behind a fallen column, so intense was the heat of it. 

The dragon's head appeared in the gap, huge and brass golden, and seeming to smile horribly, all teeth. _It's grown since the battle of sudden flame_ , thought Celebrimbor in horror, _or maybe it was that I only saw it from far across the plane. A safe distance, if such a thing existed_. Even the many leagues had not felt safe at the time. 

He coughed in the dust, and ran around a corner, his lungs burning, following the smell of clean air free of ash, as the wall hangings began to blaze with flame.

\-------

He was outside, somehow, on his knees in the smouldering remains of the grass, coughing from the smoke. 

Someone grabbed his arm roughly, and he tensed up, preparing to fight, before seeing that it was a soldier of Nargothrond, one of the scouts, her face unfamiliar to him.

"Come on" she ordered, dragging him to his feet, rough in her haste. "You've got to leave, its not safe here."

"No" said Celebrimbor, weak from the smoke he had breathed in, trying feebly to pull his arm back. He touched his forehead, his hand coming away sticky and bright with blood. Frustration and disgust curled within him, his head spinning. _Should have worn your helm… careless of you_ … "No, I have to make sure… they are safe…" _Make sure who were safe?_ Suddenly he could not remember. 

"Come on" said the guard, taking his sword from him even as it fell from his weakened fingers. "My orders are to save as many as possible. If they were in there when the dragon came…" she shook her head sadly, staring at the poisonous haze of smoke that covered the place where the great city of Felagund had once lain, the flames licking up into the sky.  

Celebrimbor let her drape his arm around her shoulder, overwhelmed, before he felt the strength go out of his limbs and the world went black.

\-------

In his dream he stood upon a hill and watched the fire burn, a roaring wall of flame right before his eyes, reaching up higher than he could see. The fire twisted and gyrated in greedy gouts, the fierce heat rolling off it, scorching his hair and evaporating the tears on his face before they could fall. 

Orodreth came out of the inferno, his hair on fire, his eyes burning in accusation. _You left me. You left me to die_. Then there were Finduilas and Gwindor, and after them Finrod, his eyes cold and harsh, his throat a bloody, gaping ruin. And then there was his father, whose gaze he could not meet.

He woke with a cry, seeing a soot-blackened hand filling his field of view, before it passed and he saw the unknown, harried-looking face of the healer looking down at him and tying a rudimentary bandage tight about his head. 

 ------

Orodreth had led the charge into battle against the orcs that had come in the dragon's train, he learned later. He and his company had all died there, fighting to give the survivors a chance to get away. 

The small band of survivors with whom Celebrimbor travelled had stopped in a little clearing to rest and bandage the wounds of the injured. A fire was still crackling amongst the trees over the next ridge; he knew they could not stay long. The woods were dangerous at night at the best of times, but now with the orcs that had overwhelmed this land, polluting the river and killing any they encountered, it was dangerous to stop in any one place for too long. He could still smell the stench of the dragon on the air, thick and cloying, turning his stomach.

Celebrimbor paced restlessly, turning what he knew of what had happened over and over his head, touching the bandage swathing his brow until someone yelled at him to stop. He longer to wrench the strip of bloody cloth from his head, let his blood spill onto the ground, soaking it. _Just as the blood of so many had_. Just as Orodreth's had, and Gwindor's, and Finduilas', like as not, for she was not amongst those few who clung together out here in the woods, running at whiles, then snatching sleep and warmth around a meagre fire while they could. Everyone was exhausted and haunted, wounded in body and spirit, worn down to the bare bones of themselves. 

He knew with a weary certainty that if they were attacked by orcs now then not a single one of them would survive. 

 _We make for the Havens_ , went the word amongst them. _That was where the little prince and his mother have been sent; that must mean it is safe._  

None of them truly _knew_ that, but it was all they had, the only hope for the people to cling to. 

Celebrimbor remembered, all those years ago, Finduilas weeping after her brother and mother were sent away. _She had chosen to stay, for she had wanted to remain with Gwindor_ … it felt like another world, a more innocent time, and Celebrimbor felt a sharp pang at the very memory. 

He did not know what had happened to Finduilas. But she was not with their band of survivors, and that told him enough.

He sat down upon the ground and stared up at the sky. Dragon-smoke lingered there, blocking out the moon and the stars, even as it had when they had fled the ruins of Himlad and come before the great gates of Nargothrond all those years ago, seeking refuge. 

But he thought not of his father then, or of his uncle, but of Finrod, standing before the open doors and _smiling_ , smiling into that light that poured about him in golden profusion as he went to his death. 

 _How does one look into the light with a smile_ , he thought bitterly _, when the light is hidden by the smoke of the burning?When the cave fills with fire, the smoke choking, stifling, one cannot see the way out._

He was certain Finrod would have come up with a solution. But Finrod was dead, and Celebrimbor had no answers, lost as he was.

_It wasn’t supposed to happen this way._

And yet it had. 

_It doesn’t make sense._

And yet it did; of course it did.

He sighed, running his fingers over the pommel of his sword, and the dagger in its sheath tucked into the front of his leather jerkin.

Wherever fate led him next, he knew by now at least that there would never be any going back.


End file.
